


12 Days of Christmas 2020

by MarigoldVance



Series: Dribs & Drabbles [6]
Category: Being Human (UK), Poldark (TV 2015), Return to Treasure Island (TV 1996), The Almighty Johnsons, The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: (A Christmas Prince), (Fee is bad at words), (Mitchell knows how to Do Things), Alternate Universe - A Christmas Carol (adjacent), Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Christmas Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Chronicles of Narnia Fusion, Alternate Universe - Movie Fusion, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Alternate Universe - Werewolves, Carnival, Fluff, Ice Skating, M/M, Marriage Proposal, Mistletoe, Not Related, Paris - Freeform, Shakespeare, fox!Fee, gingerbread, otter!Kee, toymaker!Kíli
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-10 01:40:48
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 19,997
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27876230
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarigoldVance/pseuds/MarigoldVance
Summary: my contributions to GatheringFiKi's 12 Days of Christmas 2020 event.please heed the tags[pairings/ratings are listed in each chapter summary]
Relationships: Anders Johnson/John Mitchell, Fíli/Kíli (Tolkien), Jim Hawkins/Ross Poldark
Series: Dribs & Drabbles [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2000407
Comments: 62
Kudos: 20
Collections: GatheringFiKi - 12 Days Of Christmas 2020





	1. Tinkerer

**Author's Note:**

> these have been edited since i submitted them on [tumblr](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/). most are relatively the same but some experienced a makeover à la The Swan, just FYI.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/637407203796582400/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-1-stories)

≡

Kíli had been a toymaker for close to a hundred years. He wasn’t as seasoned as Bofur or Bifur but he was respected and had toiled with integrity to earn his position. His workshop was a fair size, the machines shiny and new to accommodate the wide spectrum of doojiggers he was tasked to make from the list he was given every year.

There was room for six long worktables, the aisles between them spacious for the wooden chairs on their wheels to roll back and forth along the line with ease. Three walls were dominated with shelves that touched the sloped ceiling, stuffed to capacity with all kinds of nifty components from buttons to bolts to molds and beyond.

Kíli managed a whole jingle of elves who all adored him and never questioned his instructions, trusting his judgement implicitly. They were a jaunty group, his team, and the air was always filled with good cheer, many leading choruses of carol singing or regaling the others with hilarious suspicions of the humans they were crafting for.

Kíli’s uncle, who reigned the Snow Peaks, had his opinions about Kíli’s decision to dedicate his life to such a, how did he put it?, _rudimentary_ vocation but Kíli was adamant and he deeply enjoyed what he did. It gave him a sense of purpose that sitting around being princely never would.

Kíli had always done things his own way.

He applied one hundred percent of himself and went the extra poronkusema1 to ensure that what he and his workshop produced was up to the highest standard.

Unlike the other toymakers in the October department (or in many of the other departments, honestly), Kíli made a point of retrieving his own materials. Lumber, he procured from the magical Greenwood in June when it was first cut and, for metal, he traveled in April to the refineries in Moria to inspect the earliest samples.

For gems, he traveled to the Vast Waste in March and September, when the Aurora bloomed, and its kaleidoscope was richest in the stones that absorbed its light. Those were his favorite trips. He could have easily ordered enough to supply all the jewelry his listers asked for on his first excursion but that would limit him to _one_ opportunity a year to see—

 _Fíli_.

Kíli felt giddy thinking about the Night Keeper, flushed warm in a way that had little to do with his layers. Frollish beat ahead, his harness bells tinkling the melody of his great body’s strength as he pulled Kíli’s sleigh across the frozen lake. Kíli tried to focus on rein tension but, with nothing else to occupy his mind, his thoughts kept returning to Fíli.

Fíli was—

Night Keepers’ work was solitary work, so, at first, it hadn’t bothered Kíli that Fíli often allowed him to carry the majority of their conversations. After awhile, Kíli taught himself to appreciate Fíli’s company without words since it had become rather tiring trying to engage a man who was so content to listen to someone else’s thoughts for once.

Fíli was quiet, observant, and altogether a steadying presence who Kíli gravitated to without intention. And his sense of humor, though rarely indulged, was quick and dry and made Kíli’s sides ache whenever Fíli shared it. He was as magnificent as the lands he kept watch over and he didn’t care if Kíli was a prince or a tinkerer, he simply cared about Kíli.

Frollish slowed when they left the ice, the sleigh jumping as it slid over the lip of the bank and landed on the powdery snow of the familiar trail. Kíli frowned at the patterns that appeared in the snow, branching from an alternate route onto the pathway. It was unusual that he saw anything but flat, untouched white stretched before him when he came a-calling. The tracks were new, hours old at most, and definitely those of another sleigh and a reindeer about Follish’s size.

Which meant someone else from the Company had come to do business with Fíli.

Logic reminded Kíli that his … business … with Fíli wasn’t exclusive. That those from the Company who did their research would know where to find the best gemstones and, therefore, would find Fíli. That Fíli could show whoever he chose the caches of Aurora stones his parcel of the Waste generated.

Logic was a wee voice, smothered beneath the blaring horn of Kíli’s jealousy. 

Another forty minutes and Kíli arrived at Fíli’s post – a modest dwelling built into the side of the mountain with a pen extending from the front for his mount, not too far from the cave entrance to the Seeing Stone that allowed Fíli to guard the whole expanse of his domain without having to aimlessly wander.

Sure enough, there was another Company sleigh stopped on the path ahead, three small yet bugling satchels in the seat, no doubt full of a generous haul of gemstones, and its reindeer idling in his harness and chewing a treat of Swiss chard.

Kíli directed Frollish into the space behind the other sleigh and hopped out, feet tangling in his lap blanket in his haste. Righting himself frantically, he tossed his driving gloves and nissehue2 into his vacated seat and covered them with the blanket before stomping through the snow to Fíli’s front door.

Fairfax, Fíli’s black as pitch hawk stallion, whinnied at Kíli from her pen, nodding her massive head in a grab for his attention to no avail. Kíli had worked himself into a tizzy and was fixated on getting to the bottom of the intrustion-that-logically-wasn’t-really-an-intrusion-but-shut-up.

“Sorry girl.”

Just as he lifted his hand to knock, the door swung open to reveal a face Kíli didn’t think he’d ever see so far from the Company village.

“Uh— _Oh_ , Hello Kíli,” Ori greeted, ducking his head, his cheeks sweetly pink. “I wasn’t expecting you to be here.”

Kíli stumbled over a thousand words before he finally settled on, “What?”

“Well,” Ori began, gaze skating up to meet Kíli’s, “You normally don’t come down until mid-September, it’s only just the first week—”

“Right.”

“— and I didn’t want to impose, you understand, because you always seem to prefer coming alone – otherwise I would have waited and joined you—”

“Mm-hmm.”

During Ori’s explanation as to what he was doing in Fíli’s doorway, Fíli himself had manifested in the area behind Ori at a short distance and leaned against the wall. He wasn’t wearing his coat which gave Kíli an unobstructed and very scrumptious eyeful of the corded muscle in Fíli’s arms and shoulders. The man’s frost blue eyes stared intensely into Kíli’s and Kíli found himself tipping sideways somewhat to peer around Ori’s form to get a better look. Kíli was jolted out of his stupor when his shoulder hit the doorframe.

“— so you see why I’m here.”

Kíli’s attention snapped back to Ori, “What? Oh! Yes, fine.”

He had no idea how Ori had justified himself but Kíli didn’t care anymore because Fíli was _right there_ and Kíli wanted to get closer. Close enough to feel Fíli’s heat seep into his skin, feel Fíli’s breath on his chin and the weight of Fíli’s hand on his back where it found itself whenever Fíli guided him into the caches. 

Ori must have noticed something since he excused himself and returned to his sleigh.

“Hello.” Kíli said softly, smiling so hard his cheeks might have stuck.

“Hello.” Fíli answered in a voice that made Kíli’s knees weak.

They stared at one another, neither moving, Kíli slowly being devoured by the heat and happiness he saw in Fíli’s expression.

“Shall I see you, then?” Ori called, sleigh jingling up behind Kíli, pointed homeward.

Kíli nodded and flapped dismissively.

“Alright then. You know, it’s a little strange that you said how treacherous the journey is—”

“Farewell Ori, and I’ll see you upon my return!” Kíli rushed himself through the door at last and slammed it closed behind him, his back landing against it heavily. 

There was a beat of silence wherein neither Fíli nor Kíli so much as twitched. And then Fíli threw his head back and laughed, a meaty, wild thing that swept Kíli up and took him into the clouds. It was the most beautiful thing Kíli had ever heard.

“You told them the journey here was treacherous?” Fíli was finally able to ask when his laughter subsided.

Kíli cleared his throat, embarrassed, but mustered the courage to admit, “No. Yes I—sort of wanted to keep this place a secret, I suppose. I thought if they believed the travel rough, they would be deterred from coming.”

Fíli watched him closely. “Did you want to keep the gems for yourself, for only you to use?”

“No! No, it’s not that at all!” Kíli darted into Fíli’s space before he could consider his actions – or his words. He grabbed Fíli’s tunic in his fists and hurried to reassure him that, “It was you I wanted to keep for myself!”

Oh dear…

Kíli blanched, eyes pinching closed at his confession, and swallowed hard. “Oops.”

“You … wish to keep me?” Fíli whispered and brought a palm up to cup Kíli’s jaw. His eyes were soft when Kíli dared look, and his thumb was gentle where it caressed Kíli’s lower lip. “All for yourself?”

The hope on Fíli’s face made Kíli brave, “Yes. For as long as you’ll let me have you.”

“How long?” _Have you wanted me?_

“Long enough, I think, if I’m getting jealous of Ori…”

Apparently, Fíli found that information amusing as he shook from shoulder to shoe with supressed giggles.

“That is too long.” He agreed and took Kíli’s hand to lead Kíli further into his abode.

It was exactly how Kíli remembered it, simple and sparse. A table and two chairs, a woodstove for cooking, and a bed that had been carefully chosen for its width and comfort. There were two rooms through closed doors on the back wall – a small bathroom and the pantry that doubled as the spare room where Kíli had slept on a cot during his previous visits.

Fíli pulled Kíli in tight and spun them around, lifted Kíli under the knees as if he were as light as a ragdoll, and tossed him onto his back on the bed in one impressive show of brawn and grace.

“Um, not that I’m complaining, Fee, but what are you doing?”

“I thought I’d prove to you that you have no reason to be jealous, if that would suit you?”

“Yes, absolutely,” Kíli launched himself at Fíli and pulled Fíli over him like a blanket, both landing in a winded heap on the mattress, “I need _a lot_ of convincing!”

Fíli’s laughter clangored again like the bells on Christmas Day and Kíli swooned shamelessly beneath him.

After an afternoon of dispelling all doubts and fears, and an evening of revelations, the two mounted Fairfax and rode to the first cache. It was there that Fíli told him of the moonstones that were best collected in May and February, and the different quartzes that could only be found in March, and so on and so on until Kíli’s calendar was completely rewritten.

It was important, after all, that Kíli applied one hundred percent of himself and went the extra poronkusema to ensure that what he and his workshop produced was up to the highest standard…

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1: _poronkusema_ \- the distance a reindeer can travel before needing to stop to urinate  
> 2: _nissehue_ – Danish word for the traditional elf hat


	2. The Domestics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DarkHawk, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/637501547039817728/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-2-bonus-fullsize)

≡

They’ve done terrible things to get here. Ross watched Jim’s mother sacrifice herself for a distraction; he watched Jim put a bullet in her head, right between the eyes, so she couldn’t be used by the gang of Plowboys hauling her away by the ankles. Ross himself slit the throat of his first love, bludgeoned his cousin for attempting to sell Jim to the Gamblers for immunity that anyone with a sound mind knew wouldn’t be respected.

He and Jim are Domestic now, unaffiliated after a raid eradicated their group, holed up in a large manor at the tip of the country. There are a few others, a small cluster of people like them, barely clinging to their humanity but willing to feign ignorance that the End happened to maintain it. They stop by from time to time, bringing supplies they combed the land for or asking for simple favors that Ross and Jim are content to provide. Dwight Enys and his wife are more welcome than the others and are their closest neighbors. They share a fence to the west and trade vegetables and alcohol.

No one talks about the meat.

Only twice has an arm of one the gangs successfully reached this far north, and they were dealt with swiftly. Now, there’s a minefield surrounding the area, a fortified fence with regular patrols and crank siren to allow for those in their homes to retreat to the tunnels.

_No one talks about the meat._

Jim is quiet, pensive as he hasn’t been in many months and Ross doesn’t know how to alleviate it. Jim doesn’t get quiet. He gets crafty and sarcastic and philosophical, _thoughtful_ sometimes, but he’s still loud, his very presence humming two-hundred watts of energy that Ross can sense from a distance. A symphony of heartbeats and breath and saliva; every shift, every thought, has a sound Ross covets because _Jim is alive, safe, close_.

Quiet is Ross’ gimmick, drilled into him after the First Wave.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?” Ross asks after the third day.

The husk of his lover peeks over the back of the couch and makes a face as if he’s not sure how to put together the words to explain. For a moment, Ross is scared that Jim doesn’t know how to say _goodbye_ but is immediately relieved when Jim says:

“It’s almost Christmas.”

The tension in Ross’ body rushes out from his feet, sand in an hourglass, and he sways forward, hands finding purchase on the back of the couch to keep him steady.

“Jesus Jim, I thought it was serious.”

“It _is_ serious.” Jim avers, his eyes slitting into something fierce. Ross can see his jaw twitch, his knuckles turning white as he fists the blanket he has thrown over him. The force he puts behind his words makes Ross hungry, the passion and single-minded focus Jim exhibits something he’s greedy for when it’s entirely trained on him.

Jim notices the heat flare in Ross’ eyes and scoffs.

“One-track mind.” He mutters, takes his bottom lip between his teeth and flops back on the couch, throwing an arm over his eyes.

Comprehension dawns on Ross, slow as sunrise, “Christmas.”

He says it because he needs to hear it out loud. It’s a statement and a question and he wants to confirm that he hasn’t misunderstood, is willing to indulge Jim for the sake of Jim’s sanity. They’ve both been slipping, weeks of routine – a fragile facsimile of normal – has blurred at the edges, smearing into a boredom that can become dangerous if left unchecked.

They spent a year running, strategizing, killing, and now there’s nothing left to do but _be_ and they can’t seem to properly remember how. Maybe Christmas is the answer. Ross could track the buck he saw, the first animal he’s seen since the End aside from crows and rats. He could excavate the attic, find decorations that meant something to the people buried under the hydrangeas.

A celebration to reset their moral compasses, remind them why they endure. There’s hope there, not for the future but for themselves and Ross wants to believe it’s worth a try. For Jim. 

“Alright.” Ross concedes, dipping to fold his arms on the back of the couch and rest his chin there. He watches Jim sit up, their faces close, noses brushing, a summer smile easing across his mouth and dimpling his cheeks.

“Alright.” The agreement is sealed with a kiss.

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for those who haven't seen The Domestics, i can't actually say you're missing much? like, it's good in a way that all post-apocalyptic movies are to someone like me who has a passion for that sort of thing. if you don't, it's ... meh. there were so many unexplored concepts that i **LOVED** in that movie. it should've been a Netflix series. anyway. Merry Apocalyptmas XD


	3. Vacant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britchell, T ([Anchor 'verse](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22296217))

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/637592133577080832/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-3-stories)

≡

Anders didn’t know what brought him there.

Blaise Hamlet was dreary and grey, the rustic cottage Anders found himself in possession of older than the country he hailed from. Drafty, creaky, probably held together by woodworm. Dawn would find it charming, he was sure, with its snow-covered lawn and stone-tiled roof. The property – fair for England, Anders guessed – was hemmed by a tall, thick hedgerow, a skinny path snaking from the drive to the front door.

Inside was fully furnished, as stipulated, and decorated for Christmas when he was given the keys, fixtures to fabrics to furniture all in a light, neutral palette.

A woman’s Pinterest creamdream.

Anders’ eyes were sore from it; it didn’t feel _airy_ , as the agent packaged it as. It was disorienting, too fucking bright to keep his eyes open without straining the muscles. He’d become a night owl just to avoid going blind by a gleam of sun off the kitchen counter. Though familiar with late nights and mornings that rolled around in the afternoon, he didn’t appreciate having to upend his whole lifestyle for the sake of battening down and waiting for another sign. Anders functioned better in the daylight. He _was_ human after all.

_He swallowed that bitterness with a sip of the scotch he nursed._

Regardless, he was reluctant to say he missed Auckland. There were _things_ he missed but, as a whole, he knew he was better putting it behind him.

To be sure, putting it 11 412 miles behind him was a bit much, even by his overambitious standards, and choosing to start fresh in a country famous for its rain and stiff upper lip was so far removed from the sort of change he’d been open to that it had not only shocked everyone he’d told, but it had also confused the shit out of _him_.

It didn’t take an IQ over 130 to recognize weird, divine intervention when it came bewitching.

He’d been a vessel for fuck sake; _god adjacent_. He knew what thrall looked like and he’d been under one from the moment the idea manifested to when he stepped through the front door of his new house.

Like it had been with Bragi, the impression of a voice massaged his brain, its cadence nudging his thoughts in directions he would never go of his own volition. It mimicked intuition, the sensation of a gut feeling, every particle charged and aimed at kismet, all it needed was the moving parts to get it there. Who better than a newly vacant vessel recently graduated from his destiny?

Anders doubted it had anything to do with him, figured he was there to intervene somehow in someone else’s journey to save the world like he had been for Axl, considering the only other thing it could possibly be had been wiped from his slate shortly after Bragi put down roots in the back of his skull.

_He drained the scotch, icecubes clinking the tip of his nose, and reached for the half-empty bottle sitting beside him on the coffee table. Contents renewed, he settled back into the stuffed couch cushions and held his glass on his chest, pointedly ignoring the back of his hand where it mocked him._

Whatever the reason, it was coming to a head, obvious in the way he moved through the last couple of days in a haze. Akin to the trancelike motions he went through in Norway on his pilgrimage to Yggdrasil, lost and foggy until his feet found the pathway to purpose.

Christ, he was eager to get it over with. While he didn’t want to return to Auckland, he intended to go somewhere with more sun, a beach, _bikinis and speedos_.

He was done with all the destiny bullshit.

⊹

Anders jolted awake, swam out of a dream into an upright position on the couch where he’d dozed off. His glass rolled off his chest and into his lap, spilling water on his crotch and soaking into the cushion beneath him.

“ _Fuck_!” He jumped up, the glass following and hitting the carpet with a muffled thud.

His hand _burned_ , a brand of pain in an arc across the back of his thumb into the bone of his forefinger. That shouldn’t happen. It _couldn’t_ happen. Of all the impossibilities he’d encountered, that was the one that _could not_ happen because the laws of nature were set in stone. Soapstone, mostly, but things _like that_ were chiseled granite so there was no point in suspending belief.

“ _Fuck_!” Anders cried again, the pain searing from his hand to his heart. He dropped to his knees, tears springing to his eyes, and erupted a sobbing wail into the air just to release some of the pain from his body.

There was an uncomfortable series of tugs and pinches, like dragging a medical needle under the skin, prodding at squirmy veins, beneath the sharper, fuller agony causing his lungs to constrict and throat to close. He screamed and writhed, clutching his hand close to his body, curling in on himself on the floor as he begged the universe for relief.

Long seconds seized the pain into numbness. He couldn’t feel anything, didn’t know if he was breathing, if his heart was beating, if he was alive. The world was spinning, topsy-turvy, and the wind was loud, _so loud_ , a banshee in his ears except he knew the windows and doors were closed, he never opened them, it was too fucking cold and wet in Britain to open a window. Anders wheezed, spots danced in front of his eyes and then, suddenly, a mighty peak of fire, the pain surged and then receded.

The last thing Anders heard was a whip crack and a distant thump. 

⊹

The next time Anders waded into consciousness, it was slow, the last fingers of sleep slipped from him in a gentle caress, coaxing him to wakefulness. He groaned and rolled onto his back, rubbed the gum from his eyes before daring to prop up on his elbows. A foreign feeling settled in him, a calmness he’d never experienced purring through every vessel, atom-deep and all encompassing, and the gaping space Bragi had left behind was finally closed, the missing pieces assembled from the ether to make Anders whole again.

There wasn’t time to examine the strangeness of it, however, because a noise split the peace. Anders heaved himself to his feet and trained his ears, the sound plucking a string inside him. Just as he started to reconcile that it was his imagination, it rang out again, strumming his psyche like a harp.

Laughter. Bold and buoyant. And nearby.

“Who the hell—?” Anders padded to the window and pushed back the curtain to peer outside.

He choked and stumbled backwards at the sight that greeted him. Rallying himself, Anders skidded to the door, shrugged on his coat and shoved his feet into his boots, yanking the door open with more force than necessary.

He stomped halfway down the path and then veered into the thick layer of snow that sheeted his front lawn, freezing like a deer in headlights when the trespasser moaned and shifted. Where instinct should be yelling at Anders to book it back inside and call the police, it instead encouraged him to narrow the distance.

The stranger, a tall man with black curls and features sculpted by Michelangelo, groaned again, his eyes squinting then blinking open to stare up at the night sky. He was dressed poorly for the weather, in skin-tight jeans and a thin jacket, though his boots seemed sturdy enough to stomp through slush.

“Excuse me,” Anders said, voice unsteady as the stranger hauled himself up so he was sitting, “But what the fuck?”

The stranger whipped his head around, gaze striking Anders between the ribs. His expression stretched into wonderment, mossy eyes going rounder and red lips parting to reveal slightly crooked teeth. Anders couldn’t move, couldn’t look away, his body refusing to listen to him and guiding him into the stranger’s space. He dropped to his knees in front of the man, wrapped a hand around the man’s bicep to help him to his feet.

They stood at the edge of the snow-angel the stranger’s form left behind, too close to be appropriate for two men who’d never met, a hair’s breadth between the length of their bodies. The stranger shuddered out a breath in a cloud that warmed Anders’ face and then he said:

“It’s you.”

His tone was pitched low and reverent and tinted with an accent.

“What?” Anders replied dumbly.

Without turning his gaze away from Anders’, the stranger brought his hand to cup Anders’ that Anders hadn’t noticed he left on the stranger’s arm. The stranger lifted it to hold between them, his thumb stroking over the back of Anders’ hand, touch soft and tingly, spreading warmth up Anders’ arm to the base of his skull. The stranger’s eyes were hooded and hungry, flicking from Anders’ eyes to his mouth.

The stranger turned Anders’ hand to reveal a mark, a name, that, until earlier, had been flaked away like a faded tattoo.

“You can’t be—” Anders choked.

“I’m sorry I took so long.”

Anders was suddenly hyperaware, alert, honed into where the stranger was touching him. There was so much Anders wanted to know – _where the fuck did you go? how are you here?_ – but the words got stuck behind his teeth, all that managed to press free a feeble, “Don’t make a habit of it.”

The stranger – _not a stranger, not anymore_ – threw his head back and laughed, the same sound as before only this time real, echoing back into the past to draw Anders from the house. It was rich and beautiful, and Anders knew he could listen to it every day for the rest of his life without there ever being a chance he could hate it.

“I promise, Anders Johnson, I won’t.” The man said his name as if he’d been waiting forever to do feel the shape of it in his mouth, every vowel and consonant lilted with an adoration reserved for Anchors. An adoration Anders thought had been ripped away from him before he had the chance to learn it.

“Good.” Anders said, tipping against the man, bringing his lips to hover over the man’s own. “You have a lot to make up for John Mitchell.”

“I’ll do my best.”

And, just like that, Anders didn’t give a fuck where in the world he was, so long as his Anchor was with him.

John Mitchell definitely had the legs for a speedo. 

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i consider this a 'retelling' or parallel-universe fic-of-a-fic. it fits (somewhat) my original idea that Mitchell is killed before he gets to New Zealand to find Anders, but is then brought back by Bragi when the gods leave their vessels once Frigg is found.
> 
> inspired by [this house](https://www.google.com/search?q=farmhouse+near+bristol+england&rlz=1C1CHBF_enCA926CA926&sxsrf=ALeKk01y-K67zShDjyfvoMTzBiijGXCeUA:1607720412146&source=lnms&tbm=isch&sa=X&ved=2ahUKEwjticGg6cbtAhVpS98KHc8PDjYQ_AUoAXoECAMQAw&biw=1536&bih=754#imgrc=La6ZWlg6Azvu9M)


	4. Hobbies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britchell, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/637773332239007744/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-5-special-thanks)

≡

“I can do things, you know.” Mitchell said defiantly, a twinkle in his eye, the grin on his face accentuated by a foam-mustache.

The bar was empty apart from Olaf snoozing at the other end, perched precariously at the edge of his stool. Mike was putzing around in the back, the dishwasher humming beneath the bar, the telly in the back playing highlights of figure skating competitions past. Mitchell had been absorbed in the prancy-dancy choreography for an hour without a word until something must have triggered him, coaxing him to make his announcement. Being the only other person ~~awake~~ around, Anders was forced to acknowledge it.

Anders regarded Mitchell, his own mouth whiskey wet, smirk dwindling as he considered Mitchell doing anything but mopping up blood and piss from the hospital floor or lounging on Anders’ couch binging procedural cop dramas from the 80s.

“I had hobbies.” Mitchell said when the pause stretched into something bordering uncomfortable, his insecurity prickling. “I’m quite talented.”

“I believe you,” Anders started and then hid a humoring smile behind the rim of his glass, taking a sip before he continued, “Thousands wouldn’t, but I do.”

Challenge accepted.

ː

Mitchell looked the place up on Anders’ computer, detested every second of it, his searches taking longer due to the way he phrased them: _Hello Google, please tell me where the nearest skating rink is_ and _Could you tell me where the nearest skating rink is to me here, in Auckland?_

It was as cute as it was pathetic, not that Anders would admit it out loud, like reading someone’s mother’s first text, written polite as a handwritten letter.

Daft cunt.

Sexy, daft cunt. Anders would’ve helped him sooner had Mitchell been wearing more than a pair of low-slung sweats and yesterday’s aftershave. Also, if he hadn’t been doubled over, dry heaving he was laughing so hard, tears in his eyes and holding his stomach.

“ _Please Mr. Google_ —” Anders’ wheezed, mocking, “ _I’m lost_.”

“Naff off.”

ː

Mitchell wasn’t lying. He was fucking brilliant. Thick, sculpted muscle bunched and released, leading him through the movements with the grace of someone who’d done it a thousand times. It was a sinuous display of bends and dips, Mitchell spinning in places and lifting in others. His legs were encased in his regular skinny jeans, but they looked _tighter_ , fitted over the pert swells of his arse and calves like a second skin. Mitchell flexed and extended, reached forward with his hand and back with his foot, gliding across the ice in liquid strokes.

He was feline sensuality in discount duds.

Anders’ couldn’t tear his eyes away with a prybar. 

ː

Anders refused to apologize to the Zamboni driver who stumbled upon them against the boards, just inside the gate where Anders couldn’t restrain himself anymore.

Mitchell kept the skates on.

ː

“Is there anything else you’re hiding from me?”

“I’m not hiding anything from you.”

“ _Fine_. Is there anything else I should know about?”

Mitchell cocked his head to the side, sides of his mouth glistening with a mix of saliva and come and, _fuck_ , he was gorgeous like that. Anders lifted his hand to stroke his thumb through the mess, smearing it into Mitchell’s cheek, tugging Mitchell up from the ground with a finger hooked under his chin to loom over him. He licked into Mitchell’s mouth, swirled his tongue to gather the taste of them, pulling back with a bite to Mitchell’s bottom lip.

They stared at each other as Mitchell pondered the question, a slow, wicked smile curling his lips.

“I used to pole dance in San Francisco in the nineties.”

“Oh yes you fucking did.”

ː

The pole installed in the middle of Anders’ living room didn’t raise a single eyebrow. The skating lessons and rack of bedazzled apparel were a surprise.

≡


	5. Great White North

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DarkHawk, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for THIS PHOTOSET

≡

It was a hard rotation and Ross is ready to put it behind him, eager for the reprieve the next two weeks promise in their short days and long nights. He’s already put a great distance between himself and the town, yearning to be away from anyone who might interrupt his time off. Only one deputy – his closest friend, Dwight Enys – knows how to find him if there’s trouble. 

While the people are few and sparsely dispersed, Ross didn’t want to take the chance of having to socialize more than absolutely necessary and so he bought himself a box of land a year into his employment, for those weeks he didn’t want to return south and to the burden of his family.

It’s his refuge away from his refuge. His most favorite place in the world. Made better last year when his whole structure of being was demolished and remade by hands he can’t wait to feel in his own.

The cabin itself is built sturdy, practical, as everything is this far north; a toy-block looking thing made to blend into the landscape rather than stand out from it. Around the cabin is a dazzling spectacle of nature brushed in a stark, monochromatic palette.

Beyond, the mountain descends from heaven, the snow that coats it blending with the low wisping clouds like smeared paint. Between, the water moves slow and quiet, clean in these weeks of its usual carpet of drift ice, colored in gradual shades of blue – oxford to navy to azure – each one bold and defined. At the cabin’s back, the shoreline creeps, black and cragged, for miles on either side, its arms reaching around the bay in a compressed U-shape.

No matter how many times Ross sees it, it always feels like the first.

The interior of the cabin had been bare when Ross finished furnishing it and it remains bare to this day except now it isn’t _empty_. Apart from the addition of two rungs of floating shelves on the back wall, crammed with paints and other supplies, and an easel with its back to the room and its face to the window, all the cabin’s cracks and spaces have been filled with something Ross may never be brave enough to name but it’s _there_.

The snowmobile rumbles through the wilderness, following the trail toward the treeline. The trail is packed down from frequent traffic until it forks, one tine bending to run along behind the treeline toward the airport, the other barely visible except for one set of tracks that lead straight, out into the wide open white.

Ross revs the engine and barrels ahead, bursting into the plains on a grinding roar, bouncing over lumps beneath the snow. He throws his head back and howls merrily into the air as he picks up speed, careless now that the danger of hitting something is behind him. His anticipation thrums harder behind his ribs, flushing through his body the closer he gets to his destination.

Living somewhere as remote as this can be stifling, isolating even to the truest recluses. Ross has seen many come and go, finding the work too repetitive, the pace too slow, the lack of interaction too lonesome. There isn’t much in the way of entertainment unless it’s hauled up in a suitcase (which isn’t worth it when workers are only aloud one and a cooler). Amenities are more expensive for how difficult it is to bring them in or rig them up. The bar provides more problems than amusement so no one outside the permanent residents take up their vigil at its taps.

Ross was certain he would be completely alone, aside from Dwight’s occasional check-ins, for as long as he lived there, which suited him fine. Until it didn’t. Until it stopped being enough and he wanted more than he knew how to ask for.

Good thing he didn’t have to ask.

It takes another forty-five minutes before he arrives, groaning into the space beside the second snowmobile that’s already cold and covered. Nova yips her welcome, jumping and charging the length of her chain, spry as the puppy she hasn’t been in several years. She snorfles and huffs, licking Ross’ palm when he yanks his glove off and brings his hand out to pet her fluffy head.

“Yes, yes, yes,” He chuckles at her excitement to see him. “Ready for freedom?”

She barks in what Ross assumes is the affirmative. He crouches and releases the clasp, letting the chain drop into the snow with a powdery, muffled thud, then marches back to his snowmobile to grab his things and put the cover over it, thinking it unlikely that he’ll make it back out of the cabin until tomorrow at the earliest. 

Nova bolts away, leaps into the piles left behind from the scant removal efforts performed after the last snowfall, rolls in patches of what Ross hopes to God isn’t polar bear piss. She’s up again, frolicking in circles until she tuckers herself out and lopes back to Ross’ side, tongue lolling out the side of her mouth.

“Yeah? You have fun?”

Ross earns a sneezy huff in reply.

“Silly thing.” He shakes his head fondly, finds the end of the chain in the snow and reclasps it to Nova’s collar. Once he’s certain she’s secure, he hoists his bags over one shoulder and tromps toward the door.

He picks his way up the two steps to the door and through it, dropping his bags in a heap on the floor as soon as he closes it behind him. The cabin is warm, heat cranked up as high as it goes, and the smell of cinnamon tea permeates the air.

Finally, after fourteen days of longing, Ross’ eyes find him. Jim peeks out from behind his canvas to present Ross with one of his boyish, dimpled smiles. He’s clad in loose sweats and an open flannel, from what Ross can ascertain, chest and feet bare, and he’s everything Ross has been missing during his rotation.

Jim ducks back behind his canvas, smile shy and sweet and his ears pink at the way Ross is gazing at him. The sounds of caps being refitted, and brushes being dunked in water filter over to where Ross is struggling out of his gear.

“Hey babe.” Jim says, shuffling up to him like a dream. He helps Ross remove his heavy coat, takes Ross’ bags and carries them to the foot of the bed, too big for the space it occupies, and leaves them where they’ll stay for the duration of Ross’ time there.

A grin dawns like the sun across Ross’ face at the sensation of _home_ that he never believed he’d be worthy of. Can’t help but bite his lower lip in joy, cheeks lifting and crinkling his eyes, when Jim returns to him with a steaming mug of his preferred tea, already poured and steeped and waiting for Ross on his nightstand.

This is his refuge away from his refuge, his most favorite place in the world. And it’s made infinitely better with Jim in his arms, Ross greedy for him and glad for the assurance that there will be no interruptions. He breathes in Jim’s scent, nose tickling under Jim’s ear, and whispers:

“Hey beautiful.”

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> wherever they are, it doesn't exist. but it kind of could, i guess. in my head, it's an amalgamation of Kuujjuarapik, QC and Fortitude, somewhere in the Arctic (from the tv show!) and i couldn't undo it. i know quite a lot about living up north in QC secondhand but, obviously, that can only get me so far without experiencing it myself. so ... yeah. a lot of this is accurate to QC except the landscape which was inspired by Fortitude ... 


	6. The Innkeeper

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/637950802621792256/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-7-bonus-fullsize)

≡

Esgaroth is a dismal place – so bleak, the sun ignores it. A hodgepodge of narrow streets and squashed-together buildings made of cheap timber and soft stone. The whole place looks sunk into the mud it stands on, tilted sideways toward the grey, silty lake that earned the town its name.

There’s been some recent interest from the outside, bringing curious travelers to their door.

Everyone by now has heard the story of Alfrid Lickspittle, who had humbugged his way through life until he was visited by three ghosts on the eve of Christmas last year. A man redeemed, changed from smarmy to sincere, clutching to kind, greedy to giving. A transformation so remarkable, people are willing to believe in magic.

Though Fíli isn’t gullible to such nonsense himself, he can’t deny the miser’s good mood. The loan Lickspittle approved has gone far in the construction of Fíli’s enterprise, Esgaroth’s new inn.

With travelers comes the need for somewhere to put them and Fíli realized the necessity for a new establishment, one that people would want to come back to (the only other inn in town is a sooty, grim hovel that sells watery ale and illicit company, its patrons often loud, crooked, toothless swine carried in from the fishery).

Fíli has labored and scraped since he was old enough to stand on his own and is determined to work for himself, put enough coin in his pocket to earn him a day of leisure without worry. He won’t take advantage of his guests, charge more than his services are worth; the price he asks for is high yet reasonable considering the good food, comfortable beds and pleasant atmosphere he intends to provide.

Regrettably, the inn’s construction took longer than projected and he’s running out of money, forcing him to open before the interior is complete. Still, the inn doesn’t lean sideways and has two finished rooms, a functioning kitchen and a presentable dining room that doubles as a space for recreation, fitted with a billiards table and dart board, and a sitting area around the grand fireplace. What paint and paper there is on the walls are a rich blue, as are the details in every room.

His first guest is a codgey, sheep-faced woman from Dale who has business in town that she explicitly informs Fíli is _private_ although he doesn’t ask. She demands hot water for a bath once a day and for her meals to be delivered promptly to her room; Fíli complies.

She spends a week and more money than her charges come to, plodding to her carriage with the promise of telling everyone in her circle of Fíli’s inn.

His second guest is a man and his wife, both mousy in appearance and demeanor. They sit in front of the fire and barely share a word, and when they do issue requests, Fíli strains to hear them. Like his first guest, they stay a week and lay down more coin than required, bidding him farewell with meek smiles and a vow to return.

Between his three guests and the meals he offers in the dining room to whoever stumbles in, Fíli can afford finer ingredients for cooking and softer linens for the beds. He finishes painting the third-floor hallway and moving furniture into the third room the same day his next guest arrives.

Fíli’s third guest is somewhat of a mystery. He is well groomed and dresses smartly, his clothes tailored and sharp, but there is something coarse about him, a subtle grit behind the pitch of his words. Unlike the bathwoman and the murmuring husband, the man has no business in Esgaroth, none that he divulges to Fíli anyway.

After three days of lurking over Fíli’s shoulder as Fíli toils with baseboards, he says, “I’m Kíli, by the way.” and nothing more, sauntering away to leave Fíli confused until he has to go prepare supper.

More rooms are open, and more guests filter in and soon Fíli is busier than ever. He rushes about, filling requests and securing fixtures and cooking, cleaning, meeting vendors for better quality goods. The inn is resplendent where it’s finished, on its way where it isn’t. He has enough coin in the bank now to stave off any financial stress for awhile, even if the inn sits empty for a month.

But it isn’t empty, and Fíli is busy and so he’s taken by surprise when Kíli seems to manifest from thin air beside him in the kitchen.

“Fancy some help?” He asks, perching himself on the table, careful to avoid streaks of flour, and observing Fíli as Fíli kneads dough.

“I’m fine, thank you.” Fíli answers politely.

He drags the back of his wrist across his forehead to mop up the film of sweat before he hunches over again and returns to his task. Kíli continues to watch him.

“Don’t you get tired?”

“Tired of what?”

“Doing things.”

Fíli frowns, it’s such an odd question, and shakes his head. Indeed, his mind is often occupied with everything that remains to be done around the inn, but he doesn’t tire of it. There’s no time to be tired.

“No.” He says simply and that’s the end of it.

He can feel Kíli’s eyes bore into the side of his head, but he doesn’t turn. After a few quiet moments, Kíli hops down from the table and disappears up the back stairs to the second floor. The next morning, when Fíli scurries into the kitchen from the woodpile, minutes late to start breakfast, there are four risen balls of dough sitting on the table to greet him. The stockpot is simmering, the smell of hardy stew poofing in Fíli’s face when he removes the lid to inspect it.

Everything is … _ready_.

Not sure what to do with himself, Fíli stands, staring into the stew as if it will offer him instruction.

The next morning is the same, and the next, and the next, until Fíli starts trusting it to be done for him and dedicates himself elsewhere. He has his suspicions about who it is acquiring the chore of preparing breakfast, but he doesn’t say anything, afraid that if he does, he’d have to acknowledge that, perhaps, he _doesn’t_ like ‘Doing things’ as much as he formerly resigned himself to believe.

A week later, when Fíli enters the kitchen, there’s a plum-shaped man puttering between the stove and the table, whistling to himself jovially as he chops carrots and celery.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Hello.” The man replies, his voice dredged from his diaphragm.

Fíli says hesitantly, “Who are you?”

“I’m the new cook! You may call me Bombur.”

Fíli protests, argues until his face is as red as Bombur’s bulbous nose. Kíli finds him mid-crescendo, finger raised to jab his points in the air, and escorts him by the shoulders to the sitting room.

“You should lay down, Fíli, you’re exhausted.”

“I didn’t hire a cook.” Fíli insists, arms hanging between his knees and nose to the ground. He _is_ exhausted but there are still things that need to be done.

“I suppose you didn’t hire the serving girls either.”

“Servi—”

Sure enough, two girls with similar eyes and friendly smiles are skipping and dipping across the noisy dining room, refilling ales from pitchers and delivering plates. They laugh and titter and wink, raise their chins defiantly when spoken to roughly and, altogether, keep the pace smooth for the evening rush. Fíli does little more than stand behind the taps that evening, taking and filling the orders the girls relay to him.

When it finally occurs to him to ask what they expect to be paid, they cock their heads and eye Fíli as though he’s gone mad.

“Master Kíli said you paid a fair wage, sir.” Tilda speaks with a hint of uncertainty.

 _Master—what!?_ It is a problem Fíli will have to address at another time, for now the Tilda and Sigrid are awaiting his affirmation, softening him with their big, wet doe-eyes.

Fíli sighs, “Yes, yes of course I’ll pay you fairly.” Because he will, absolutely; he’ll pay them for tonight and then dismiss them. He was content doing the work himself.

Eight days later, Sigrid and Tilda arrive donning in the uniform Fíli ordered from the seamstress, a more professional and comelier ensemble than what they wore their first night in Fíli’s employ.

On account of his new staff, Fíli has time to focus on other aspects of the inn. Ceilings that need a fresh coat of paint and holes that need patching, rooms that need to be serviced before the guests turn in. His hours are still busy and, when Kíli finds him, he’s slumped and drooling over last month’s budget where he dozed while trying to calculate the cost of new crown moldings.

“You should relax, Fíli, the inn is fine.”

“And so am I.” Fíli grumbles, ignoring the comfort of Kíli’s shoulder beneath his cheek, the hard line of heat Kíli’s body makes along his side.

Kíli rounds them into Fíli’s private apartment on the top floor of the inn, leads him to the washroom at the back. The air is stuffy with steam from the bath that Kíli must have drawn for him. There’s a towel folded at the head and the tray is cluttered with ointments and soaps Fíli doesn’t recall buying for himself. He sniffs, the faint scent of lavender and citrus tickling his nose, and he inches closer.

True, he hasn’t had the chance to test the plumbing he recently finished installing, but he doesn’t have time for a soak.

“You need it.” Kíli says, helping strip Fíli of his layers. “Trust me.”

“How can I?” Fíli wishes he put more strength in his voice, there’s hardly a note of challenge.

“You like Bombur, don’t you? And Sigrid and Tilda?”

“Yes, of course I do, they work hard.”

Kíli rolls his eyes, “And so do you.” He shoves Fíli toward the bath and waits for him to step in before divulging himself his coat and vest, rolling up his sleeves and taking a seat on a stool above Fíli’s head. “They were supposed to ease your burden, Fíli.” Kíli admits, “Instead, you find new ways to work yourself to the bone.”

“It’s not me,” Fíli mutters though the fight drains from him as the hot water leeches the strain from his muscles. “There’s still so much left to be done.”

“That’s a lie.”

“No it isn’t.”

“Yes it is. The inn has been complete since my second week here—”

“Speaking of which, when do you intend to leave?”

“—and all you’re doing now is creating projects for yourself. The old moldings were fine, but you’ve gone and replaced them before anyone had a chance to admire them!”

Fíli’s objection comes out as a moan as Kíli’s fingers find his shoulders, pressing and digging into the tissue in a way that sends a flush through Fíli’s body. He sinks to his nostrils in the water.

“I wonder if it’s because you’re lonely.” Kíli surmises, barely a whisper, his curiosity tinged with sadness.

“I’m not.” Fíli says weakly.

“I’ve never seen you with anyone.”

“You’ve been watching have you?” Fíli chuckles, hollow, huffs a breath out his nose and gazes at nothing, trying to ignore the blunt pang in his chest.

He can feel Kíli shrug. “You’re very nice to watch.” And then he ventures, “You have time now for friends, if you allow things to be as they are.”

“The roo—”

Kíli pinches the skin between Fíli’s neck and shoulder, _hard_ , “You can hire someone to do the roof.”

“And if they don’t do it properly, I’ll have to do it myself anyway! Where’s the sense in that?”

“You trust a cook to do the cooking and serving girls to do the serving. Why can’t you trust a carpenter to … carpent?”

Fíli snorts, represses the laugh for only a second before it bursts from his mouth.

“I suppose you’re right.” He concedes when he’s calmed. “But I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

There’s a knot of something warm in Kíli’s voice, of hope and fondness mixed, when he suggests, “Start with me.”

⊹

A year later, Esgaroth is…a dismal place – so bleak the sun ignores it. However, now there stands a bright red beacon at its center, the inn always lively and packed with jolly folk. Fíli has learned to delegate his work and gives himself time to mingle with his lodgers, and time to spend hobbying.

He’s grateful for Kíli’s intervention, truly, and for Kíli’s continued stay at his inn. The man never revealed his origin nor his business, but he’s made a place for himself at Fíli’s side and Fíli sees no reason to argue it.

There is still work that needs doing but Fíli has labored and scraped since he was old enough to stand on his own and has determined that he’s put enough coin in his pocket to earn him a day of leisure without worry. With a twist of the arm from Kíli, of course.

≡


	7. Method of Distraction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> DarkHawk, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638041352741011456/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-8-stories)

≡

The village was postcard perfect, the charm of its stone structures enhanced by a thin dusting of snow on roofpeaks and windowsills. Trees along the canal were bedecked in Christmas gear, livened with handcrafted wooden ornaments in all shapes, sizes and colors. The trip in hadn’t been long, forty-five minutes at most, and Jim had made sure to give himself ample time to admire before heading to Benbow Inn Café.

He strolled along the canal, from storefront to railing in a lazy zigzag, the thrum of anticipation building under his skin the closer he came to his destination. His hands were stuffed in his pockets, one lightly curled around the most recent letter, fingers lovingly rubbing the creased paper and smudged ink. It was tucked with care in its envelope though read a hundred times throughout the week, every lilting letter committed to memory.

The other was firmly curled around a small, velvet-fuzzy box.

Six years ago, he’d met Ross Poldark, a gloomy, cantankerous man who became Jim’s whole world in the span of two coffees and a joke about swans. Jim couldn’t remember the joke, but he could picture vividly the way Ross’ throat had bobbed and his eyes had crinkled shut when he’d laughed to the sky. Without being told, Jim had known the sound was rare and remarkable, and that Jim had been the one to cause it had fueled him to see if he could do it again.

Ross carried himself like a man not to be approached, heavy brows and cutting glances, the scar marring his left cheek adding to his menace. He was beautiful; dark and broad and forceful. Jim was greedy, a trait he wasn’t ashamed of since it usually earned him what he wanted and what Jim wanted then was Ross. He just couldn’t allow beautiful things to slip away from him. 

Unfortunately, their lives weren’t simple, but they met in Hendrawna as often as they could, called and texted and emailed and Skyped. Wrote letters once a week because _why not_?

The letters were Jim’s favorite, loaded with purposefully overflowered nonsense, the retelling of Ross’ week in the voice of a 16th Century poet. Jim never wrote back, not like that, but he cherished every one almost as much as he cherished the man who penned them.

And it was about time he expressed that.

⊹

The train whistled, chugged its winding way through the scenic northern valley, winding around the mountain. It was something to do that neither of them had done. A day ride, popular with couples, complete with private cabins and a dining car that served champagne and a light meal. It would stop in Nampara, another pleasantly old-fashioned village that thrived on city money, before returning its passengers to Hendrawna before dusk.

“What’s this about?” Ross asked several minutes into their journey, his voice amused.

Jim dragged his gaze away from the forest outside to see Ross considering him.

“Whad’you mean?”

“You’re not a romantic.” Ross stated temperately, lifting a hand and waving around them at the red velveteen and dark wood, “All this? Isn’t something you do.”

“I can’t be romantic?”

Ross snorted, “Not traditionally, no.”

“I got you flowers once.” Jim countered.

“You got me herbs. And I appreciated that, it made sense. I prefer using fresh herbs in my cooking. But that’s what I’m talking about, it was _practical_. Thoughtful. But _practical_.”

“And a train ride through a picturesque forest isn’t practical.” Jim guessed, pinching his brows as if he were concentrating very hard on unearthing Ross’ point.

“Not unless there’s a reason you want to go to Nampara.”

Jim bit his tongue, marshalling all the calm and composure he could before he said, “Your parents are buried there, aren’t they?”

“We could have driven.”

No, they couldn’t have, not after the amount of champagne and wine Jim planned for them to consume.

“Ross, relax.”

“I’d love to, but I know you’re not telling me something.”

Before Ross had the chance to tack on anything else, Jim launched himself into Ross’ space with the feline grace of purposeful seduction gone sideways. He was clumsy as he fell into Ross’ lap, knees on either side of Ross’ thighs, in a distracting straddle. Quickly, Jim glanced at the curtain across the door, making certain they had their privacy so he could employ the one tactic he knew would work to distract Ross before he could ruin his surprise.

“This isn’t going to work.” Ross said, hands automatically coming to rest on Jim’s hips with a squeeze.

A coy, little smirk slanted across Jim’s mouth as he leaned in to brush his nose against the tip of Ross’, “Yes it is.”

Jim rolled his body from hips to chest, grinding the swell of his arse down into Ross’ crotch and giving a huff of amusement when he felt Ross’ cock give a betraying twitch. He dipped his head and skimmed his nose up the column of Ross’ throat, butterfly-soft, pressing into the sensitive hollow behind Ross’ ear with chapped lips and a stiff, pointed tip of tongue.

Ross grunted, jerked his hips up to meet Jim on a downshift and worked to stuff his hands between the waistband of Jim’s jeans and the hot skin of his lower back.

“Still not working?”

“I know you’re up to something.” Ross said, breath hitching when Jim teased his neck with grazing teeth.

Jim tilted back to give himself access to Ross’ fly, deft hands working to undo it. With a wicked look, Jim slipped his hand in and cupped the bulge trapped in Ross’ briefs, giving it a perfunctory squeeze, and said:

“When aren’t I?” 

⊹

Later, when Jim got down on one knee, the proposal witnessed by Ross’ parents, Ross was still floating in the afterglow, Jim’s distraction so good that he’d forgotten entirely that Jim had been hiding something. It worked to blindside him, drop him to his knees in front of Jim and fall into Jim’s arms with a resounding yes.

They agreed the sex in the cemetery wasn’t very romantic, but Ross had to applaud the effort.

≡


	8. Alban Arthan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, T

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638218764567101440/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-10-stories)

≡

They called it a Fire Moon. A rare and incredible spectacle that appeared once every hundred years. With it came a closer connection to the magic that currented from the Nemeta into their roots, crisscrossing beneath the ground. Those born with magic, children of the Veiled Realm, were most affected, their powers cresting closer to the surface.

According to the Durin Grimoire, on loan from Kíli beneath his mother’s nose to prepare Fíli for the Feast, the Fire Moon invoked a werewolf’s animal magic, lending them the ability to transform completely; a _full shift_ as Kíli called it. Apparently, Kíli’s _common shift_ , a more anthropomorphized-looking change that maintains a lot of Kíli’s human attributes, _wasn’t_ all werewolves were capable of when they had access to the full extent of their magic.

Pretty interesting stuff.

Fíli liked Kíli’s pointy ears and his ridged forehead though, even the fangs that crowded his mouth weren’t ugly. It was all just … Kíli, in one form or the other. Despite saying so, Kíli had rushed to assure Fíli that the full shift was _beautiful_ , a sight worth seeing, better than a bit more hair and pointy teeth.

This century, the Fire Moon was due to rise on Christmas which was just … right, it was a lot. Fíli was nervous and excited by turns; he couldn’t wait to see Kíli run in all his wolfy glory, but he was also meeting Kíli’s entire family in one fell swoop. They had traditions like any other family, passed down through the generations. The closest similarity Fíli could find was the Druid Alban Arthan, complete with candle lighting and intentions and log burning.

Fíli didn’t know if Kíli’s family respected every tradition he’d researched but he wasn’t going to waltz in ignorant, that was for sure. Hence, the grimoire Kíli smuggled to him at his behest.

_“It’ll give me at least an_ idea _of what’s going to happen, won’t it?”_

_“I guess so. If it’ll make you feel better, Fee, I’ll bring you something more accurate than Google to read.”_

He was determined to make a good first impression.

Especially considering they were all werewolves. With claws and superhuman strength. Who could _smell things_ , Fíli remembered because Kíli talked about how he smelt at every given opportunity; _citrus, mint, come_ – a lot of come, werewolves were horny buggers with a short refractory period and Fíli was helpless to the things Kíli’s slippery tongue persuaded him to do.

For that reason, Fíli had banished Kíli from his house until Fíli had been formally introduced, abstinent and extra clean.

Fíli fell back on his bed, arm over his eyes, and groaned, the grimoire snapping itself shut at his ankle.

What had he gotten himself into?

⋉⋊

Two days until the Fire Moon and Fíli was anxious. He’d been anxious all week which made him productive which meant the house looked summoned from a Christmas card: holly and mistletoe in every doorway, garland and burgundy ribbon twisted down the banister and strung over doorframes, the mantlepiece hidden under white-cotton snow and a Christmas village Fíli teleshopped the entirety of at four in the morning at the one-week countdown.

He wouldn’t be so anxious if Kíli would _call_. Text. Email. Send a letter by post, bloody _draw a fog-heart in the kitchen window_. It had been two days and nothing. He was sure, two nights ago, while he was teetering on the stepstool, hanging the last of the mistletoe, he’d _sensed_ Kíli nearby. Banished he may be but Fíli knew Kíli lurked in the boughs of the oak outside Fíli’s bedroom window, his possessive streak a mile wide.

(Kíli claimed he liked to be close to Fíli, felt settled when they were in shorter proximity. His inner-wolf was calmer in Fíli’s presence which, yeah, was nice to hear.)

The sensation only lasted a split second before it was gone. By the next morning, Kíli had gone radio silent.

 _Two days_ before Fíli was obliged to meet Kíli’s family and he’d pulled a Great Disappearing Act Houdini would be impressed by.

Swiping his phone from the counter as he waited for his lasagna to warm in the oven, Fíli scrolled through the last few texts Kíli had sent for a hint as to where he’d vanished to. Was there some sort of days-long preparation that needed doing before the run? Was he more out of control closer to the Fire Moon? No, that didn’t make sense. What if his parents already _hated Fíli_ , non visus hominis, and demanded Kíli not come ‘round anymore?

As the alpha, his mother had the power to make that happen.

Fíli blanched, suddenly dizzy. The room was too stuffy but his fingers and toes felt cold. He pulled his collar away from his neck, fanned his shirt to get some airflow going. His eyes went filmy and his throat felt corked.

 _Kíli wouldn’t do that._ He repeated, sagging against the counter and sliding to the floor, bringing his knees under his chin as he tried to drag some air into his lungs. _Kíli would say goodbye_.

He tugged his hair, scratched lines into his scalp, hoping to ground himself as his heart ticked up to _hummingbird_ and his lungs drowned. Something beeped, quick-quick-long, but the sound was lost in the tide breaking against his eardrums.

Black inked the edges of his vision; an uncomfortable tickling pulse cramped his muscles and numbed his nerve endings. And then, just when he thought he was going to pass out on the kitchen floor for his uncle to find:

“ _Fíli!_ Fee, hey, you’re okay, you’re okay, I’m here.”

Fíli floated in a strong embrace, lifted and carried away; cheek squished into a firm chest he could identify the feel of in a blind-touch lineup. A bite of cold air, some more jostling and then Fíli was being cradled, held tightly and rocked, arms and hands everywhere, rubbing comfort where they touched.

“Everything’s alright, Fee, I’ve got you.”

As soon as Fíli’s throat opened and he could breathe again, he gasped, “Where the _fuck_ have you been!?”

The body under him, around him, stiffened, the hands on his shoulder and side paused. Kíli leaned away to get a look at Fíli. Fíli stared angrily back.

“I … you didn’t want me here.”

Fíli surged up – _bad idea_ – and collapsed limply back into Kíli. He rallied the strength to grab Kíli’s face and say, “I told you we couldn’t have _sex_ , Kee, I never told you to disappear! We’re two days away from meeting your _whole family_ —”

“Fee, I thought you wanted me gone. Forever. Are you saying you don’t?”

Eyes bugging, Fíli cried, “Of **course** I don’t!” his limbs finally feeling enough for him to scrunch up and flail them. “Why would you think that!?”

Kíli ran a hand along Fíli’s arm to his shoulder to rest it in the crook of his neck, palm supernaturally hot and steadying.

“You warded your whole house with mistletoe.”

The anger drained from Fíli in a whoosh.

“I did what?”

“You hung mistletoe _everywhere_. It _hurts_ to be in there.” Kíli motioned at the open front door behind them and Fíli seemed to come awake again that second because it was only then that he noticed they were in a heap on his front porch. “I thought—I thought you changed your mind…”

“Kíli, God, no, I _wouldn’t_.”

“I tried to tell myself that but,” Kíli chuckled wetly, “There’s _so much_ _of it_.”

Fíli twisted so he could wrap his arms around Kíli, drag Kíli’s nose behind his ear to seek solace in Fíli’s scent.

“I didn’t know.” Fíli said, “I had no idea, Kíli, I swear.”

They relaxed into each other, Kíli nipped and kissed under Fíli’s jaw while Fíli patiently let him go through the motions. They sat there until Fíli started shivering, Kíli releasing him after Fíli promised to go in and strip the house of all the mistletoe, triple-bagged and put in the bin at the side of the house.

⋉⋊

“I’m so sorry,” Fíli said for the umpteenth time, the supernatural repellent bagged and thrown out alongside his burnt lasagna.

It was a good thing Kíli was a masochist and had chosen to nurse his broken heart in the oak tree, otherwise Fíli would have had to deal with more than charcoaled pseudo-Italian waste.

Some ~~everyone with common sense~~ would call it stalking, Fíli got that. Considering he was in love with a man who was steered by baser, pack-animal instinct, however, it didn’t disturb Fíli in the slightest. Kíli had been a kicked puppy, crawling on his belly to sit at his human’s feet and ask why he wasn’t loved.

Fíli’s chest constricted at idea that Kíli spent two days, forty-eight hours, 2880 minutes, believing that he’d been cast off like an old coat, left at the curb without explanation. If it were Fíli, his whole universe would have shattered. It almost did in the fraction of a second that he'd thought Kíli might not come back. 

Kíli pressed closer, sensing Fíli’s anguish (or smelling it, Fili wasn’t as informed as he ought to have been on the subject). In return, Fíli wriggled further into the U Kíli’s body made around him, holding Kíli’s arm across his chest and lacing his fingers through Kíli’s from behind.

“ _So, so sorry_.”

Kíli tracked dry lips along Fíli’s hairline, nosed his shoulder, “It’s fine. You know now.”

“You didn’t … tell you mother, did you?”

Silence.

“Kee?”

Kíli’s arm tightened.

“Did you?”

Nothing.

“ _Oh_ , that’s fantastic! I’m literally going to be eaten alive by your family. ‘Welcome to the Feast, you’re the main course’!—”

A brief trawl of fangtips then Kíli’s jaw fastened securely – a mild pressure free of pain – at the back of Fíli’s neck, a command for submission that Fíli’s human nature didn’t acquiesce to.

Fíli proved this point by elbowing Kíli in the gut.

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i haven't been reading Teen Wolf fic, you have ...


	9. pain d'épice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen ([ 'verse)](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1900903)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638135735241801728/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-9-bonus-fullsize)

≡

“It’s ruined.” Kíli said, so distraught his voice was spaghetti-pressed from the back of his throat.

Familiar with the motions of Kíli’s distress, Fíli turned his full attention to him and quietly waited for more but nothing came; Kíli simply dropped like a sack of potatoes into the vacant chair behind Fíli’s counter and buried his head in his hands.

“I doubt it’s that bad, kit.” Fíli tried to assuage, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he didn’t miss any shoppers when they came to inspect his selection. “You were saying earlier that you had it in the bag!”

Kíli dragged his face up, his expression miserable, “No, Fee, it’s _ruined_. The walls crumbled and there’s icing everywhere—” He motioned down his front with all four fingers of each hand for emphasis, showcasing a Starry Night of flaky white smudges all over his jumper, “—and all my gingerbread men have vanished!”

Fíli quirked a sardonically curious brow, “Vanished or you gobbled them all up?”

Kíli pressed his lips together in a tight line and didn’t respond.

They were interrupted by a couple with matching scarves and mittens, the woman cheerfully taking the initiative to ask Fíli all sorts of questions about the various blends of mulled wine he had displayed. Fíli answered warmly, served the pair samples of what he had simmering on the small two-element hot plate behind the counter, and did his best to ignore the cloud of doom and gloom sulking behind him for the two minutes the couple lingered.

As soon as they had their backs to the stall, bag clanking with their purchases, Kíli pulled Fíli’s attention back to his world-ending problem.

“ _Fee_.” Kíli whined, word tapering off into a desperate chitter, mangled by human vocal cords but no less endearing. “What am I going to _do_?” 

Kíli made quite the adorably pitiful picture, slumped and pouting, floppy hair in his eyes, pink cheeks plumped from more than that day’s score of gingerbread self-sabotage. Having uncovered Fíli’s stash of Yuletide chocolates and pies (that Fili had had every intention of selling alongside his mulled wines and ciders), Kíli’s belly stretched his jumper sweetly, new pudginess in a roll doughing over the waistband of his otherwise very well-fitted jeans. He was a cute, plump little muffin and Fíli was having trouble remembering that Kíli put himself in his predicament and that Fíli _shouldn’t_ indulge him.

And then Kíli lifted his head, lashes thick and cow-eyes liquid and Fili felt his resolve snap as it always did.

“Help?” Kíli said meekly.

“Help how?”

Kíli chewed his bottom lip, flashed his jelly-pink tongue and then brightened with an idea, “I just need more gingerbread!”

“Right.”

“And there’s a stall down the way selling homemade pieces, all bundled together, nice ‘n’ convenient—”

Fíli absentmindedly combed his fingers through Kíli’s hair, hushing him when another customer stalked up and eyed the bottles on the counter. Without warning, Kíli gathered himself up, stood and greeted the man, launching into clear and concise explanations when the man asked questions. He managed to make the sale, his charm and buoyancy making it impossible to say no. Fíli could sympathize. 

Once the man was gone, Kíli spun around and beamed at Fíli who was wise to what Kíli was doing and wasn’t about to fall for it.

“Oh, Kíli no.”

“It won’t take a minute.” He insisted, “And, as you can see, you can trust me here!”

“You can’t even trust yourself with gingerbread men.”

Kíli scowled, shook himself off and set his chin in determination.

“I’d do it myself but I wouldn’t be able to get away quickly. My arms just aren’t big enough.”

“I don’t even have arms,” Fíli rebuked from under his brows but he was already twisting behind the curtain he’d hung for privacy beside the back door.

“I’ve already thought of that!”

Fíli hung his jacket on the back of the chair he had stationed there then pulled his sweater over his head, folded it and placed it on the seat. “Of course you have.”

“No one will notice you.” Kíli assured.

“I’m not so sure, _orange_ has a tendency to stand out.” T-shirt, thermal, belt.

“Everyone’s distracted. And she’s so busy she won’t be looking behind her.”

“Behind?” Fíli had to wonder whether Kíli came to him first or if he’d done some recon before plastering on a pitying face.

“She keeps her extra stock in a container next to the back door.”

“Which you just so happen to know.”

Kíli’s eyes darted about, blinked rapidly, but his mouth stayed closed.

Kicking off his boots and wriggling out of his jeans and underthings, Fíli took a moment to feel his body, roll and flex his muscles, loosen whatever tension sat between the thew. And then his whiskers pricked through his skin and his fur sprouted, the soreness of his bones as they snapped, shifted and mended hardly noticeable after millennia of performing his magic.

When he next opened his eyes, Kíli was above him tautening a cloth bag at the handle, ready to slip it into Fíli’s mouth. If foxes had eyebrows, his would be a flat line of disapproval. Kíli dropped to his knees and shoved the bag in Fíli’s mouth, pausing to stroke his hands down Fíli’s sleek-silky back and press his face into Fíli’s breast. Fíli both heard and felt Kíli deep intake of air when he scented Fíli before he stood up, unlatched the back door and gave Fíli a nod.

Kíli wasn’t wrong, everyone was distracted that night. The market was sparkling under a canopy of fairy lights, the avenues between the stalls crowded with eager holiday shoppers. Fíli kept to the perimeter, bounding along the back of the stalls where no one was likely to catch sight of him.

The task itself was easy, straightforward – they’d done similar deeds in more impossible places; deeds that involved _handles_ and _locks_ and people paid to _watch_ for suspicious comings and goings. Nicking pieces of a gingerbread house (which he’d make Kíli compensate the woman for later, he swore) wasn’t so great a test. Especially since Kíli was ~~conveniently~~ correct in that the woman who ran the stall was indeed busy fluttering between parents and children, marketing the joy of assembling gingerbread houses. 

Fíli nudged the back door open and spied the extra stock as a fox, reached in and grabbed a bow-wrapped pile in his people-skin and then scurried away as quick as he could with a bulging bag in his mouth on all fours.

Later, as the market was shutting down and Fíli was packing away his bottles, he was pleased to discover his efforts hadn’t been in vain. Kíli returned, brandishing a massive, green, third-place ribbon and a small envelope with his winnings. His brows, however, were low and his nose was pointed at his feet, a glower set in the lines of his face. 

“You know, kit,” Fíli said kindly with a dollop of amusement behind it, “You probably would’ve won if you hadn’t eaten all your people again.”

Kíli harrumphed.

≡


	10. Without Words (I Say To You)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638230094657290240/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-10-bonus-fullsize)

≡

Fíli wasn’t good with words.

Mute at worst.

Christian de Neuvillette at best.

Small talk was fine; lighthearted banter was easy, and how to wade through polite conversation had been drilled into him since he was still pink and slimy from the womb. His first words were _Mum_ and _Dada_ and his early childhood was loud with questions about the world around him and how it all fit together.

Superficial nonsense, brushing the surface of deeper meaning, that wasn’t _difficult_ , Fíli supposed, but if the discussion took a turn for the philosophical, he bowed out and was content to listen to everyone else use their words to intricately describe their thoughts.

Feelings were hard.

 _Articulating_ feelings was a Sisyphean task that Fíli never got better at no matter how many hours he spent with his nose stuck in a thesaurus. He _had_ a vocabulary, a rich one – he could define a flavor as _robust_ , a scent as _wispy_ , a sensation as _euphoric_. Employing it, however, was impossible.

His tongue knotted and his mouth went drier than the Atacama and all his words got clogged in the back of his throat, leaving him to stutter and bumble through half-realized declarations that caused more confusion than clarity. It didn’t matter that _think before you speak_ was the bloody mantra he lived by; he couldn’t untangle the words once they clotted together. Rather than spitting hairballs of bullshit at people trying to engage him in sentimental waxings, he didn’t.

Fíli stayed quiet.

Instead, he became a man of action.

 _That_ , Fíli could do. Excelled in. Should be awarded a PhD for all the physical manifesting he did of his deepest feelings. It was simple and sensible and required far fewer catastrophic misunderstandings because “ _I think grass grows_ ” wasn’t how you told a child magic existed if you stopped putting so much pressure on nature to perform blockbuster fantasy illusions.

Fucking, congratulations, yes it did, but there was nothing more humiliating than hearing his seven-year-old cousin revert to Neanderthal speech because he thought Fíli was _special_.

His dignity never recovered.

Sadly, it wasn’t always so easy to get away with _just not doing it_. Sometimes, a person needed to _hear things_ , important and meaningful things, expressed verbally, as if that somehow solidified the abstract and made it more real than _thinking they know_. Because it wasn’t _knowing_ until it was voiced. Until then, he’d been lectured, it was _assuming_ and that wasn’t enough.

You couldn’t merely kiss someone, hold their face in your hands with all the gentleness your body could manage, and look at them like the sun, for them to blatantly comprehend that you were madly in love with them; would probably throw yourself in front of a bus for them, would risk getting eaten by sharks or bears or mothers-in-law _for them_.

You had to _say_ you would do these things. And, Christ, was Fíli uncomfortable with that.

Sure, communication was a cornerstone of a strong relationship but …

Fíli had needed to come up with a way to communicate _and fast_ because, verbose he was not but that voice blindness heightened other aspects, such as _observation_.

Taking a page from Fíli’s book, Kíli had yet to say anything despite becoming overtly less happy. He was slowly ebbing away from Fíli and Fíli could guess why (without the fairly large elephant that now occupied their apartment, thanks).

_“I love you.” Kíli said, a soft breath that tickled Fíli’s lips and filled his whole being._

_Fíli didn’t respond, not with words. He took Kíli’s jaw in his palms and pressed their brows together, allowing Kíli’s love to settle into his skin, to be worshipped by the quick drum of his heart. Then, moving slowly, so slowly, Fíli brushed his lips against Kíli’s, retreated for a hard, shaky breath, and ducked back in to claim Kíli’s mouth in a wet, devouring kiss._

_Fíli devoted all he had to showing Kíli how much he felt, how big his feelings for Kíli were, saying it again and again with tingling caresses and sharp bites and probing, tireless fingers._

The elephant moved in a week after Fíli still hadn’t said it back.

That had been two months ago.

Fíli agonized over what to do. He could just say it. Three words were no great hardship, even for someone of Fíli’s pitiful skill. Only, they weren’t _enough_. Fíli didn’t just _love_ Kíli; Kíli was _everything_. He was light and warmth and— _words_. Sonnets of them! Twisty, flowery versus of every emotion a person could feel, including the not-so-great ones. Kíli could be prickly and sour and contrite as well as he was sensual and snarky and honest.

 _Everything_.

And he was perfect while being imperfect, a contradiction on legs that went on for days. His beauty was transcendent, his soul deserved an entire time span dedicated to producing interpretations of its likeness, paintings, and sculptures and, fuck, _plays_. Musicals, probably, with complex choreography and pyrotechnics.

So, no, _I love you_ wasn’t enough, and Fíli wasn’t about to cop out just to hopefully-maybe smooth things over. Kíli was too smart, he’d see through Fíli before Fíli had a chance to open his useless mouth. He needed _to do_ something because that’s how he functioned and so be it if it didn’t work but he wasn’t giving up without a fight.

Which brought Fíli to: Paris.

It wasn’t a decision driven by impulse or desperation. It was meticulously thought out. Sort of. The decision itself didn’t take agonizing weeks to come to him – it was almost immediate, actually, an epiphany sent to save him – but there had been more planning involved than Fíli had been expecting. 

If Fíli was going to express his love in any kind of way, it was going to be in what was considered the most romantic city in the world. The City of Lights that shone almost as bright as Kíli did in Fíli’s eyes.

They rented the worst car in the world for the kitschy look of it – a vintage blue Beetle that’s windshield wipers didn’t work, a Marianne Michel cassette stuck in the deck – and drove from Avignon to Paris with stops along the way. Kíli was relaxed and buoyant and breathtaking, butchering the language as he sung along to La Vie en Rose at the top of his lungs after hearing it fifty or so times.

Once they reached Paris, it was a blur of cobblestone and cafés, getting fat on pastries and dizzy on wine. Fíli couldn’t tear his gaze from Kíli, his eyes always finding him, seeking him out as they wandered after Kíli’s whims. He was devastating in his beauty, Adonis fallen from Titian’s canvas, his face ruddy and handsome, hair an artful mess—

And why couldn’t Fíli say those things? If it didn’t make him feel so foolish, he might have tried writing letters to Kíli, pages of all the poetry he made Fíli feel.

Finally, it was time. The moment Fíli hoped would make a difference. Would draw, quarter and burn Kíli’s doubts because dispelling them wasn’t enough.

It was late, almost eleven, and the Tower would be closing soon. One of the staff had already explained the matter of minutes Fíli had left to make his declaration. He took Kíli by the hand and led him to the very edge, the wind dishevelling them but not distracting from the _stunning-magnificent-astonishing_ view. The city below was a carpet of gold and sepia and orange.

Fíli watched Kíli closely, saw the dawn of his awe, his jaw slackening and his eyes going round. The reflection of the city’s light on his skin made him glow, angelic, so much more than Fíli deserved—

“It’s. _Beautiful_.” Kíli gasped against the wind, tucking himself in safe under Fíli’s arm to hold Fíli around his waist. He turned his head to speak into Fíli’s ear, breath hot and moist and welcome. His scent invaded Fíli’s nose, his touch branded Fíli’s skin beneath his clothes, the strong line of Kíli’s body against his. Fíli was so overcome with how _much_ of Kíli there was to experience in split seconds that he almost missed Kíli’s soft, “I can’t even describe it.”

“ _This_ ,” Fíli said, shifting so that they were chest-to-chest, Fíli’s thumbs stroking Kíli’s lips and his fingers under Kíli’s ears, expression imploring as he stared into Kíli’s eyes, “This is how you make me feel. Everyday. Every moment.”

If he were ever asked, Fíli could pinpoint the instant it happened; something clicked into place behind Kíli’s eyes, something significant and powerful and immense and suddenly he was smiling and wobbly all at once, hands pawing wherever they could find of Fíli’s arms and neck and shoulders. The tension flushed out of Fíli’s _soul_ because Kíli _got it_. He understood, message received, felt the enormity of what Fíli was spelling out without an alphabet.

They were a tangle of lips and tongues and joyful tears when Kíli said, “I love you too.”

≡


	11. Tragedy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638309386587160576/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-11-stories)

≡

The carnival came twice a year, for May Fair and for Yulefest. Each was as memorable as the last with games and curiosities and entertainment for all ages. And the food! Sweets and salties, things fried in oil, sugar spun into fluff and greasy fare drenched in sauces that got everywhere.

While May Fair was lovely, a sensory pleasure, boasting a maze constructed entirely of fragrant spring blossoms and a carnival wheel tall enough to touch the clouds, Kíli preferred Yulefest. There was something more _magical_ about it; lights twinkled differently, and food tasted richer and it was warmer somehow despite the chillier weather.

His favorite part was always the grand production on the last day. A play performed in the Big Top after it was rearranged to look like one of those fancy theaters in Gondor or Rohan. Removed of its usual equipment, the detritus of animals and pie-flinging clowns, center ring was transformed into a stage, completed with a proscenium arch and a bustled curtain that reduced the interior of the Big Top by half. What audience bench rows remained were exchanged for cushioned, button tufted seats to further enhance the atmosphere. 

Since the village was too small for a theater, the Big Top was as close as Kíli got to a cultural experience. And he was amply fine with that. The cities were a hassle to get to and a hassle to stay in and a hassle to leave. Perhaps if he wasn’t the only one of everyone he knew who yearned to see a proper production, done on a real stage with more complex scenery, he would reconsider; for now, he was alone and that was fine considering the plays came to him anyway. Not all the shows Kíli wished to see but enough of the popular ones to quench his thirst.

The crowd was building slowly, shuffling to their seats. Upon sitting, most produced blankets and extra fur-lined layers, meting them out amongst those in their company.

As soon as the usher departed, Kíli unfurled the bundle in his arms: two small quilts, folded thick for sitting on, that he tamped into Fíli’s seat first and then his own. Once settled, he tugged a wooly blanket from the bag he carried and draped it carefully across his and Fíli’s laps.

(While the Big Top did its best to imitate a traditional, upscale theater, it was, ultimately, a tent and therefore could provide little in the way of heating. Apart from small units spaced out around the area – most set close to the stage for those who paid more for their tickets – it was up to the audience to fend for themselves.

Having attended since boyhood, Kíli was well versed in what to do. Amad and Adad had taught he and Fíli well: blankets, good boots, extra scarves and hats and gloves. In addition, a thermos of Amad’s tastebud-melting spiced cider and a package of Adad’s chilli jerky so their insides were as well taken care of as their outsides.)

By the time they were wrapped up and comfortable, Kíli was buzzing with anticipation. He glanced around, noticing that, so far, the audience was largely comprised of adults far older than Fíli and Kíli, though that was no indication of what they were about to see. A few years back, there had been more children in attendance for _A Midsummer Night’s Dream_ and none had laughed as loud nor as hard as the grown-ups. Still, he wondered if there was a reason behind the absence of young faces.

“Which one is it?” Fíli asked.

His full focus was on balancing his box of Elfkin supper. It was rare for a descendant of Elves to rent a stall at a carnival, never mind share the coveted recipes of their ancestors, so Fíli's determination not to let a single drip of sauce escape was warranted.

“ _Uhhmm_ ,” Kíli dug through his coat pocket for the programme he’d been handed at the entrance. “Romeo and Juliet.”

Fíli shrugged his ignorance.

Kíli mirrored the action and shook his head, equally as unfamiliar with the title. “Could be another comedy.”

“I hope so. That last one was a disaster.”

“Oi, Hamlet wasn’t so bad, it’s _you_ who lacks sophistication.” Kíli snorted as he plucked a bite from Fíli’s box with his fingers and tossed it in his mouth. His own supper had since been devoured because patience was a virtue only when enforced and no one enforced it when Kíli was hungry.

Fíli smacked the back of his hand when Kíli reached for seconds.

“ _I_ lack sophistication? You have about as much in you as a bucket of shit.”

Kíli barked, mouth full of the ball-of-something (it didn’t smell like meat, but it didn’t _not_ smell like meat) he’d managed to swipe. He clapped a hand down on his knee and swallowed with difficulty, shoving whatever he couldn’t into his cheek to say, “You lie to yourself however you need to, Fee.”

Fíli hummed, a mild, considerate noise around his own mouthful, chewed sensibly before pointing out, “Says the idiot who refuses to drink anything other than that goblin piss Ori’s cousin makes.”

“Hey, it’s a fine ale!”

“It has no flavor to speak of!”

“Never mind about what I drink, Fee,” Kíli’s voice bragged superiority, “I have a heart for this stuff.”

“ _This stuff_? You mean _the arts_?”

Kíli struck his brother with a whip of indignation. “Yes. _That’s_ what I mean. And I don’t have to prove it, either.”

Fíli huffed a chuckle through his nose, his face so sweet and eyes so fond when he regarded Kíli that Kíli couldn’t be mad at him. He leaned into Fíli’s space and smacked the wettest kiss he could summon to the seam of Fíli’s nostril and cheek.

“You’re merely jealous that I have better taste than you.” He sniggered as he sat back. 

Fíli opened his mouth to retaliate, scrubbing Kíli’s slobber away, but was interrupted by the swift dimming of the lights.

A spotlight swept a hush over the crowd before it landed on the center of the curtain. Kíli’s whole attention snapped forward, their banter already forgotten. He mildly acknowledged the press of Fíli’s body against his, from shoulder to elbow, and the insistent nudge of Fíli’s hand until their fingers were laced and they shared the armrest. Kíli was about to scold Fíli’s fidgeting when he felt the soft ruffle of his hair against his temple as Fíli returned Kíli’s kiss with a belated one of his own.

Small smile playing at the corner of his mouth, Kíli hissed, “Pay attention.”

And then the curtain lifted, the world fell away and was Kíli transported to the fabricated city of Verona, immersed in a tale of true love and tragedy.

-*-

The play was not a disaster, contrary to Fíli’s impression of it (“ _If that lady meant it and they were thirteen, Kíli, that just makes them stupid, not star-crossed_ ”). He wasn't wrong. Yet, Kíli had been subdued since the curtain closed on the last scene; uncharacteristically quiet, contemplative in a way he never was unless something bothered him.

Two days and Kíli couldn’t tear his thoughts away from Romeo and Juliet and their forbidden love. He couldn’t fathom being told he wasn’t allowed to love who he loved, couldn’t bear to think about being forced away from the person who shared the stone he was forged from.

His One.

His Fíli.

Those were modern times and if anyone raised a stink about the fact that Fíli and Kíli shared blood as well as predestined foreverness, well, Kíli knew they were in the minority and probably adhered to weird, archaic Elven or Mannish beliefs. Dwarves, as they were in the Before Ages, hadn’t given a hoot or a howl, nor had their descendants ever sought to rewrite Mahal’s divine scripture, following a doctrine of _live and let live, for fucksake_.

But, what if…?

Kíli was quiet when he placed the log on the altar at his Amad’s behest. Quiet for the Lighting. Quiet some more during the feast and again throughout the exchange of gifts. Fíli tried to coax Kíli out from whatever mental cave he’d gone spelunking to no avail, pandering him with cups of mulled wine to loosen and giddy him, cuddles in front of the fire Fíli hated building but did anyway because Kíli was in a mood. He went so far as to pry the remote from Dwalin’s meaty paw, offering the choice of what to watch to Kíli who always complained about the after-meal rugby match.

Everyone waddled into the living room to lounge like lazy cats across the furniture, their bellies full and spirits mellow after six courses of the ladies’ efforts. Changed into his pajamas – the elastic waistband much kinder around his bloated stomach – Kíli padded over to the seat Fíli had saved for him on the loveseat and curled under Fíli’s waiting arm. Fíli pressed play and the recognizable music of Kíli’s favorite holiday film filled the room.

Ten minutes later and only Fíli and Kíli were still awake, everyone else succumbing to a post-feast coma. Adad’s head was at an awkward angle in the armchair beside them though it didn’t prevent his sound slumber, each breath embellished with a loud snore.

Kíli felt Fíli’s body become heavier, felt Fíli’s cheek crease against his crown. Maybe having Fíli half under, half over him, pliant and content and _all his_ was what finally yanked him from his days-long reflection because, quite abruptly, he blurted:

“I’d kiss you.”

The sound of his voice after so much silence must’ve been alarming, given Fíli’s reaction. He jerked against Kíli, grunted through his nose, his muscles tensing and releasing where Kíli could feel them, and rapidly blinked the drowsiness from his eyes.

“What?”

With some maneuvering, Kíli twisted enough to turn his face up without having to untangle himself from Fíli’s embrace.

“I said, I’d kiss you.”

“Oh. Okay.” Fíli was mussed and half-asleep and completely adorable, brain still a few steps behind. He leaned down to give Kíli the kiss he assumed Kíli wanted, face crinkling in confusion when Kíli pushed a hand to his chest. “Huh?”

“I mean. Like Juliet.” Kíli clarified though that landed about as well as anything had so far.

Fíli blinked.

“Because she thought there was poison on Romeo’s— _ugh_ , did we watch the same play?”

“We were talking about the play?”

Kíli chuckled lightly, dipped to rest his forehead against Fíli’s shoulder.

“No, but we are now.”

“Alright then.” Fíli yawned. “Talk away, my love.”

“It’s just that.” Kíli stopped, tried again, his thoughts whizzing about, “If we were forced to—if I saw you dead, Fee, I’d want to die too.”

Fíli startled, “What?”

“If you died, I don’t think I’d be able to live anymore. Even if I wanted to, even if I tried, without you I’d eventually just … _fade_.”

“Kee, you might think that but, I promise, you’d find a way to keep living.” Fíli’s hold on Kíli tightened minutely, bringing Kíli impossibly closer.

“How can you sound so sure?”

“Because I’d haunt your sorry arse until you got on with it.”

Kíli spent awhile contemplating Fíli’s claim, lending Fíli enough peace to resume nodding off above him, and Kíli would’ve let him, too, if he’d been able to keep his musings to himself.

“Would you wait for me?”

Fíli spasmed and came awake again, “Hm?”

“Would you wait for me? In the Halls?”

There was no pause, no hesitance, no tick of consideration, the promise coming so naturally in Fíli's state of half-awareness that Kíli knew nothing was truer, “For eternity if I had to.”

Kíli tipped his head up and rubbed his nose against the underside of Fíli’s furry chin, nuzzling as close as he could get without having to cut Fíli open and wear him as a suit.

“Me too.”

Suddenly, Fíli lifted his hips, jostling them for a second before sitting again, brandishing something he’d had stuffed in his back pocket. It was a plain white envelope. He placed it on his thigh and ironed out the wrinkles with the palm of his free hand.

“There you go.” He said, lifting and holding it under Kíli’s nose.

“What’s this?”

Fíli cleared his throat, “I was going to save it for tomorrow but … Well, you’ve been in such a state these last couple of days … I thought it was because there wouldn’t be another play for six months or so but now you’re talking about _dying_.” He scratched his jaw, as he did when he was nervous, “Maybe this’ll make you feel better?”

Kíli connected the dots and gasped, tearing open the envelope to peek inside. “Fee?”

“I rented us a room near the theater and all. We can take the train, if you like. I know you love it.”

Kíli did love taking the train. He loved a lot of things but none so much as Fíli who was _taking him to a play in the city_!

“We can have a night on the town, go out for supper, maybe check out one of those spas Osgiliath is known for.” Fíli teased, rubbing up and down Kíli’s back as if to keep him grounded while his heart soared. “The play isn’t one I’ve heard of—”

“Fee! _Thank you_!” Kíli threw himself into Fíli’s lap and squeezed them together, the movement and noise briefly disturbing their father. “Thank you! Thank you! I’m sure it’s going to be _wonderful_!”

He hadn’t heard of MacBeth either but Kíli was certain it was going to be the best play he would ever see, in the city, on an adventure with his One.

Besides, nothing could be as tragic as Romeo and Juliet.

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i don't know how to explain the way my mind has interpreted what a Modern Middle-earth looks like but ... there's no internet, Shakespeare's apparently been and gone, and Yuletide traditions are whatever-the-hell nowadays.


	12. The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638320695780294656/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-11-bonus-fullsize)

≡

War is loud, whether it’s bombs or clashing metal, a reality Kíli accepted well before he stumbled out of the wardrobe and into Narnia; even its silence is deafening. Skirmishes, raids, pursuits, some merrymaking when morale was low and needed raising. Kíli experienced it all throughout his years here.

He hadn’t expected to be here as long as he has. Of course, he hadn’t expected much of anything when he pushed back the coats to reveal _an entire world_ in Professor Kirk’s spare room. Kíli chuckles at the boy he was when he entered this realm; a spritely little thing, hanging on to childish things. Those don’t serve him well anymore, but he likes to believe he hasn’t lost his spirit.

The eerie quiet that has descended over both sides sends an ominous chill through his veins, his hand twitching where it’s curled around the handle of his bow.

“Are you ready?” Oreius asks, lifting to sink his helmet over his head.

Kíli pans the field, the smudge of the Queen’s army across the scant distance, waiting. He looks to Bran, to Tíli and Tilda, who all stand, courageously poised, as ready as they’ll ever be. Gratitude blooms in his chest, flushes out the chill, and steels him. That all four of them are still together after everything – rallying troops under Aslan’s flag, training and running and fighting – is something Kíli will never take for granted.

And then he lets his gaze travel to his right and rest on Fíli, strong and steady beside him, the ferocity he carries behind his eyes burning brighter now in the minutes that precede the battle that will decide it all.

Kíli doesn’t remember much from those early days, holds an impression of his mother in his heart but no picture in his mind, but he can vividly recall when he found Fíli at the lamp, how aghast he was when Fíli declared there hadn’t been Christmas in Narnia since the White Witch assumed the throne.

_There was snow! And trees, a whole forest of them! All in the back of a wardrobe! Kíli spun in a circle, tickled by the snow that floated down and melted on his cheeks. The wardrobe back home certainly wasn’t that interesting. Their house wasn’t big enough for a wardrobe like the Professor’s, though, so perhaps that’s why Kíli had never known about all the possibilities of hiding in one._

_He bent down and scooped up handfuls of snow, packed them together with his palms and threw them at the trees as he passed them, wandering deeper into the forest. That’s when he saw it, a lonely lamp in the middle of a crossroads. Quickly, he snapped around to see behind him, if he’d missed something else on his way here, and continued his steps backwards toward the lamp._

_“Aaaah!”_

_Kíli shrieked when his back smacked into something hard and soft at once. Whatever it was fell away as Kíli hurried to turn around and confront it, the snow lifted and whirled around from the excitement forcing Kíli to still to see properly. There was thump and another shout, and a flash of red disappeared behind a tree._

_Kíli didn’t move, didn’t twitch, stood as motionless as possible in the hope that whoever he’d bumped into came out to say hello. He was very curious to know who lived in a forest in a wardrobe in a spare room._

_“H-hello?” He called._

_A head peeked out from behind the tree, frozen there for a moment, followed by a red knitted scarf and then bare though hairy shoulders, arms, chest and torso._

_“Hello.” The man said, scritching his honey-colored beard nervously._

_“Are you…hiding from_ me _?” Kíli asked, quite sure that couldn’t be the case. He wasn’t scary! He was charming! His mother told him so!_

_The man ducked back behind the tree to collect the parcels he emerged with. That time, he brought all of himself out into the open and Kíli was shocked to look down and see goat legs where trousers should be. His chin dropped and had him gaping. He clicked it closed immediately, recalling that it was rude to stare at someone’s peculiarities._

_“Huh, um, no…I didn’t want to scare you.” The man said, approaching Kíli warily. He held his parcels to his chest, hiding most of him up to his nose._

_“If you don’t mind my asking,” Kíli said, pressing on whether the man minded or not, “What are you?”_

_The man looked at him quizzically, shaking his head like he’d misheard._

_“Why, I’m a faun!” He said with a trickle of laughter, “And you must be some beardless dwarf?”_

_Kíli laughed and marched closer until he was standing a respectable breadth away._

_“I’m not a dwarf, I’m a boy!” Then he added, “I’m the tallest in my class, actually.”_

_The faun lunged backwards several steps, one arm pinwheeling to balance himself, the other clutching his parcels. “A son of Adam!?” He exclaimed._

_“Well, my father’s name is Vóli…”_

_“Yes, but you are, in fact, human?”_

_Kíli’s face crinkled at the odd question but he supposed odd was to be expected wherever he was._

_“Of course.”_

_“What are you doing_ here _?”_

_“Well, I came in through the wardrobe in the spare room and—”_

_The faun waved his free hand, brushing the air as if to clear it, and interrupted, “Spare Oom? Is that in Narnia?”_

_“What’s Narnia?”_

_The faun’s eyes bulged, and his head lopped to the side, staring at Kíli with an amazement Kíli had never received._

_“My dear boy, you’re in it! Everything from the lamp post, all the way to Castle Cair Paravel on the Eastern Sea, every stick and stone, every icicle, is Narnia.”_

_Kíli’s head oscillated right to left as he muttered, “This is an awfully big wardrobe…”_

_“I’m sorry,” The faun said, collecting himself, “Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Fíli.”_

_“Glad to meet you, Mister Fíli!” Kíli grinned, all teeth and gum, and extended his hand, “I’m Kíli Durin.”_

_Fíli blinked at Kíli’s hand but didn’t move to take it. After a short moment, Kíli realized that Fíli perhaps had no idea what he was supposed to do with it. Had he not had to introduce himself before? How big was Narnia that Fíli was the only creature around this part of it?_

_“You shake it.” Kíli said, wiggling his fingers in encouragement._

_“Why?”_

_Because … because … hm. “I don’t know. People do it when they meet each other.”_

_With a timid smile, growing and shrinking before finally choosing to stay on his face, Fíli said, “Kíli Durin, from the shining city of War Drobe in the far land of Spare Oom, how would it be if you came and had tea with me?”_

Kíli is glad that he followed Fíli, glad that Fíli changed his mind about kidnapping Kíli and instead helped Kíli back to the wardrobe so he could return home, to his brothers and sister who were undoubtedly worried sick since he’d been missing for hours (or so he’d thought).

Even then, he knew he’d return to see Fíli again, enchanted by the faun who’d become his friend. Now, there’s no denying the innocence of that feeling has transformed into something brighter, hotter, more resilient than Kíli could have predicted and he wouldn’t be alive without it to carry him on.

“Kíli?” Orieus says a little more urgently, “Are you ready?”

Kíli’s eyes haven’t left Fíli’s, they tell stories and make promises and hold Kíli together, making him brave.

“Are you with me?” Kíli asks in as mighty a voice as he can.

The scrape of metal rises, a chorus of allegiance, as his men lift their weapons to the sky and yell, “For Narnia! For Aslan!”

Fíli, hard gaze still holding Kíli’s, dips his head and says low for only Kíli’s ears, “I am with you, my prince.” the firm, unyielding veracity of his tone an echo of what it was when he proved his loyalty to Kíli the first time:

_“No matter what happens, Kíli_ _Durin, I am glad to have met you. You have made me feel warmer than I have felt in a hundred years.”_

With a final, steadying breath, Kíli raises his bow above his head, turns towards the battlefield and unleashes a powerful cry, signalling the charge.

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i couldn't help myself. and you can bet Kee stays with Fee until his death in Narnia, never returning with his siblings through the wardrobe.


	13. A Christmas Prince

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638400001213644800/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-12-bonus-fullsize)
> 
> inspired by Netflix's _A Christmas Prince_. seriously, the **very first time** i watched this movie in 2017, i **knew** i had to make it FíKí. 

≡

Kíli’s heart is in his throat, watching the last three weeks unravel in an instant that seemed impossible four seconds ago. There’s an outburst of white, clouding the damage long enough to cause fear to sludge through Kíli’s veins. Time slows, a phantom _tick tick_ ricocheting in Kíli’s skull as the scene unfolds.

His breath hitches, his eyes bulge out of his head and he’s absolutely certain, seeing the blob of Burberry tan writhe on the snowy ground, “I’m going to be executed.”

People are rushing from the palace now, descending on Fíli where he’s hunched forward, hands hovering over his right ankle. The taboggan is on its side some feet away, whole and unbroken. Someone is shouting orders; another is on the phone speaking rapidly in Khuzdul, the others crouching around the prince to assess the damage.

Fíli doesn’t make a noise, face red and wet and jaw so tight Kíli’s sure Fíli’s teeth are about to shatter from the pressure. He sees Fíli’s back rise and fall in quick rhythm, breathing Lamaze loud enough for Kíli to hear from where he’s standing at the top of the slope – which doesn’t look so mild now, distorted by the threat of Kíli’s impending death.

What the hell has he done?

⁂

“ _It’s going to be alright_.” Tauriel says, face scrunched in sympathy, “ _They’re not going to throw you out_.”

Her tone suggests she’s addressing Kíli’s concerns about the status of his story and not how he might be charged with—with _impersonation_ and _trespassing_ and, Christ, quite possibly _treason_ if Princess Fílicia decides he’s a danger to her brother and outs him.

Kíli scrubs his hands over his face and into his hair, falling back on the bed, away from his laptop. He groans to the ceiling and contemplates the imbroglio he’s gotten himself into.

“I’m fucked.”

Tauriel releases a delicate laugh, thready through the laptop speakers, “ _You’re not. You should take the opportunity to dig up—_ ”

“There can’t possibly be anything else to dig up, Tauriel!”

“ _—more about Lady Charlotte and this Cousin Thranduil you said have been snooping around. Kíli, this could make your career, are you really going to let that go just because you feel bad for showing him how to have a little fun?_ ”

“He’s injured.”

“ _He’s fine._ ”

She sounds so confident that Kíli’s willing to believe her.

⁂

Forty-eight hours and still no word. Princess Fílicia hasn’t sought him out as she usually does, and her lessons aren’t scheduled to resume until tomorrow so Kíli has no idea how she’s feeling, if she’s told her brother that Kíli _isn’t_ Ori Clerk, her tutor arrived three weeks early; if they’re both too generous and good to expose him and are simply waiting for him to take the hint and show himself out—

“The Prince requests your company.”

It is said in Mrs. Sackville-Baggins’ lemony lilt.

Kíli has never been so happy to see her.

She is a staunch woman who moves like she’s made of wood. Her face is permanently pinched, eyes and lips budded, and brow drawn in a severe line. She was the second in the small queue of acquaintances Kíli has made during his stay in the palace. His first was her cousin, Bilbo Baggins, senior footman, who happened upon Kíli the morning he snuck into the private hall from the public area after the press conference was canceled.

She watches Kíli jump from his seat on the bed, where he’s spent the past two days oscillating between panic and resignation. His clothes are rumpled and most of his hair has slipped free from the unstyled bundle he piles it in atop his head. Sandbags droop under his eyes and Kíli can _feel_ that his eyebrows could use a comb.

He looks down at himself and then back to Mrs. Sackville-Baggins who gives him an arch look.

“Right now?”

“I would suggest making yourself presentable. I believe thirty minutes is plenty of time.”

“Yes, yes thank you!” Kíli leap-slides across the bed to the dresser, wrenching open drawers and grabbing fresh clothes before dashing to the ensuite.

⁂

Prince Fílix is not at all the philandering, partygoing playboy the tabloids present him as. He’s thoughtful, modest, a brilliant big brother who plays and laughs and puts Fílicia’s happiness before his own without hesitation, as if it can’t possibly occur to him to do otherwise.

Most of all, though, he’s a young man terrified of taking his father’s place.

Kíli might not know him well, but what he does know is warm and soft and gallant. The moments they’ve shared, alone and intimate, were filled with a candidness Kíli aches knowing Fíli’s never experienced before, always treated carefully or used – as it was with Lady Charlotte – for the attention being near him yields.

“You’ve been avoiding me.” Fíli teases from the sofa when Kíli’s usher is dismissed, taking with him the weight of two days’ worth of uncertainty to leave behind only the familiar lump of guilt Kíli’s grown accustomed to over the weeks. 

“I haven’t.” Kíli says, unable to lift his gaze farther than Fíli’s chin.

The room, at a furtive glance, looks like a personal study. Books in neat rows to the ceiling and a commanding desk in the center of the room, a receiving area by the window with a low table and two large sofas upholstered in emerald green and gold damask. Fíli is arranged on one, his back propped up by pillows against the arm and his foot supported by some sort of orthopedic cushion made to keep his leg elevated. 

Fíli regards him for a moment, thin lips quirked at the corners, and hums before he says, “No, I think you have because, if you weren’t avoiding me, why haven’t I seen you?”

“If you wanted to see me, why didn’t you say so?” Kíli challenged, forgetting his nerves.

It was easy between them, like this, with no one else to watching.

“It’s not as though I could come looking for you.” Fíli laughs, a flavorful sound, and motions to his ankle. And then he says, like a secret or a promise, Kíli isn’t sure, but he knows it’s meant just for him, “Or I would have much sooner.”

Finally, Kíli looks up. Fíli’s eyes, an intense glimmering blue, hook Kíli’s, make Kíli feel pulled across the distance that separates them. Despite his position, Fíli holds himself magnificently, like a king, haloed by the light tumbling in from the window behind him as if nature itself needs to vaunt his existence. Taking in his features altogether, Kíli remarks that he seems oddly happy, delighted even.

“You’re not mad? About what happened?”

“Why would I be? Because of this?” Fíli flaps again at his ankle and chuckles, “I don’t regret it. It was the most fun I can remember having in a long time.”

The admittance hurts to hear.

Fíli motions to an armchair angled close to the sofa he’s nested on – brought in from elsewhere, no doubt, considering its clashing blue fabric, “Sit down, will you? You’re making me uncomfortable.”

Kíli says in false disbelief, “Uncomfortable? You?” and takes the seat, rearranging the chair at Fíli’s hip so he’s able to face Fíli without having to twist.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing, _Your Royal Highness_ , my humblest apologies, I didn’t mean to offend.” Kíli dips his shoulders forward and flourishes a hand in an awkward, seated bow.

Fíli snorts, “That was better than your first attempt, at least.”

“Oi!”

⁂

None of this was supposed to happen. It was supposed to be simple; an opportunity to prove himself and earn his boss’ respect, perhaps receive his very own feature in next month’s issue.

Instead, he’s executed a full-scale undercover operation, his colleagues back home egging him on, and is _living_ in the palace, _engaging_ with the royal family like he’s been part of the household for years, in the smallest, quaintest country on the globe.

Erebor is as beautiful as Google portrayed, more so under the carpets of snow the winter brought on its wings. The town – because, though the capital, Lonely Mountain can hardly be considered a sprawling metropolis – is cobblestone and rowhouses, cafés and artisan shops, something dropped out of a Hallmark card dripping in garlands and baubles for the holidays.

Christmas is a big deal here, Kíli’s learned, and it shows.

The significance of Christmas is likely why the interregnum is due to expire on Christmas Eve and the Prince’s coronation is scheduled for Christmas Day. That is, if Fíli – the heir, who Kíli is _on a first name basis with_ at the _Prince’s behest_ – chooses to accept the crown and not abdicate as many speculate he will.

Beneath the surface of that headline lies the truth of a son who misses his father, a daughter who is different and struggling to be seen. Not to mention a message from the grave, a potentially irreparable scandal that would tear apart a family and, furthermore, a country _and_ a love triangle Kíli may or may not make a square.

What was presented as a detached effort to see if the Prince would continue to circumvent his responsibilities has unraveled to become a telenovela of plot-twists.

It’s the story of a lifetime and will undoubtedly result in the promotion Kíli has worked his arse off for.

 _If_ he decides to submit his work.

⁂

They chat until the sun sinks below the horizon, trading stories of their families, Kíli careful to omit certain details, and their childhoods. Fíli’s, while opulent, wasn’t so different from Kíli’s; they were both loved, both worshipped their fathers, both rebelled. Of course, Kíli’s rebellion didn’t make the cover of every gossip rag in the world. Nor was he expected to shoulder the burden of his father’s responsibilities much earlier than anyone could have anticipated.

Plus, Kíli never had to endure Lady Charlotte and her questionable motives, weaselling her way back into Fíli’s life so close to his coronation (or abdication, Kíli still isn’t sure which way Fíli’s leaning) after leaving him in a backwash of public scrutiny—

“I hope you come tomorrow night.” Fíli says, apropos of nothing, pulling Kíli from his thoughts.

“Tomorrow night?”

“The Christmas Eve Ball? I’ll feel a lot less nervous with you there.”

Peering at Fíli, now golden under the antique light from above, Kíli’s heart lodges in his throat for a reason that doesn’t involve accidents and uncertainty. Fíli’s face is relaxed, open, his eyes at half-mast and a lazy smile dimpling one cheek. He’s slouched down the couch by degrees over the course of their conversation, his head now sunk into the pillows, hair loose and fanned around him, and has a blanket thrown over his lap. Kíli’s feet are snug under Fíli’s side, Fíli gently cups Kíli’s ankle in one solid palm, thumb stroking under the hem of Kili’s jeans.

Kíli is seized by the desire to crawl over him, squeeze in beside him and be held by him, safe and perfect and able to forget everything Kíli can’t say.

“Fíli, there’s something that I need to tell you—”

He’s interrupted by a barely-there graze of lips, a hitched breath, a hand coming to cradle his jaw, fingers scraping tingles behind his ear. Kíli doesn’t remember leaning closer, drifting into Fíli’s orbit, sharing breath as the narrow space between them filled with tension.

Fíli tips back enough to ask, “What was it you needed to tell me?” the gravel in his voice skipping down the length of Kíli's spine.

Kíli doesn’t answer, Fíli doesn’t let him, capturing his mouth once more in a searing kiss.

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow Kíli will tell Fíli everything. For now, he lets himself have this.

≡


	14. Wish Giving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> FíKí, Gen

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for [THIS PHOTOSET](https://gatheringfiki.tumblr.com/post/638411279657205760/12-days-of-christmas-2020-day-12-stories)

≡

Wish Giving was tricky business. It involved patience and stealth and good ears for listening. When wishes were made, spelled when the wisher believed themselves alone, it was Kíli’s duty to collect them. He had to be swift, catch them before the sentiment vanished like smoke in the air, and deliver them to his brother who would imbue them with magic to keep them potent and contain them until it was time for Giving.

The Giving itself took place on the one eve a year Mahal’s great eye opened closest to the mountaintops. Its light rivaled Varda’s yellow face, chasing away all maleficence that lingered in the deep shadows for a night of revelry and joy.

Kíli was exhausted, having traveled farther across the lands he and his brother belonged to than he’d ever been. He’d collected his biggest melody of wishes yet. For his part, his brother Fíli had spent every hour his eyes were open hammering and tinkering and assembling the embossed tin cases the wishes were delivered in. Their den was hoarded with them, the floor and walls completely disappeared under the piles Fíli prepared for Aulëtide.

Kíli stretched out the kinks in his muscles and hummed contentedly, luxuriating in the feel of the plush mattress beneath him and the hard body along his back. He was reluctant to move but they both had to, one task remaining before their time was their own: stuffing the cases into sacks and sending them through the rootways to the Giver, faithfully waiting under the golden branches of Laurelin.

“ _Mmm_ , Fee, wakey wakey.” Kíli whispered, squirming around so he could bury his face in his brother’s furry chest.

“Not yet.” Fíli moaned and tightened his arms around Kíli. “We have hours.”

“We have one.” Kíli says, more awake, lips shaping the words against Fíli’s skin. “And we have a lot to pack.”

“If you hadn’t been so busy this year, hoglet, all we’d have to do is lay in bed.”

Kíli prodded Fíli’s belly, sniggering when Fíli gruffed and found his ear to bite. “Come on, up up and when we’re done, _we’re done_ , and we can stay in bed for all the days we want until New Birth.”

“You hate me.”

“I love you.”

With a bit more cajoling, Fíli rolled out of bed after Kíli and tugged his on braies and nothing else. They each grabbed a thick pile of sacks and began the chore of sliding armfuls of cases into them, binding them with tough cord to ensure no wishes would be lost before the Giver could deliver them. 

In all their years, Kíli mused, neither he nor Fíli had ever seen the Giver. Some said he was wyrmlike, spined and scaled from snout to tip of tail. Others claimed he was an eagle, mighty and majestic, or a bear who sometimes shed his skin to walk, unnoticed, on two legs. Whatever he was – none or all three – Fíli and Kíli had never been curious to know, their work taking up much of their time. The time it didn’t, Fíli and Kíli preferred spending satiating their curiosities about each other.

Tonight, after their den was cleared of the wishes of strangers, Kíli intended to make his brother’s – never spoken, never asked for, always understood – come true and Kíli knew Fíli was determined to do the same for him.

≡

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **HAPPY CHRISTMAS EVERYONE!!!**


End file.
